• 


..:.•••  ; 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


GREIFENSTEIN 


BY 


F.   MARION    CRAWFORD 

AUTHOR  OF   "  MB.   ISAACS,"    "  DR.   CLAUDIUS,"    "  A   ROMAN   SINGER, 

"ZOROASTER,"  "A  TALE  or  A  LONELY  PARISH," 
"  SANT'  ILARIO,"  ETC. 


MACMILLAN   AND    CO. 

AND    LONDON 

1894 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1889, 
BY  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 


First  Edition  (3  vols.  crown  8vo),  March,  1889.  Reprinted  June,  i? 
Second  Edition  (i  vol.  crown  8vo),  December,  1889.  Reprinted  i£ 
1891, 1892;  February,  1894. 


Norfooofi  $rrBB : 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 

iLutfjer  9Terrg 

TO    WHOSE 
TRIED   FRIENDSHIP   AND    CONSTANT    AFFECTION 

I    OWE    SO   MUCH 
I   DEDICATE    THIS    BOOK 

SORRENTO,  February,  1889 


8G6182 


GREIFENSTEIK 


CHAPTER  I. 

FRAU  VON  SIGMUNDSKRON  was  not  really  much  past  middle 
age,  though  the  people  in  the  village  generally  called  her  the  old 
baroness.  Her  hair  was  very  white  and  she  was  thin  and  pale ; 
her  bold  features,  almost  emaciated,  displayed  the  framework 
of  departed  beauty,  and  if  her  high  white  forehead  and  waxen 
face  were  free  from  lines  and  wrinkles,  it  must  have  been  be 
cause  time  and  grief  could  find  no  plastic  material  there  in 
which  to  trace  their  story.  She  was  a  very  tall  woman,  too, 
and  carried  her  head  erect  and  high,  walking  with  a  firmness 
and  elasticity  of  step  such  as  would  not  have  been  expected  in 
one  whose  outward  appearance  conveyed  so  little  impression  of 
strength.  It  is  true  that  she  had  never  been  ill  in  her  life  and 
that  her  leanness  was  due  to  the  most  natural  of  all  causes ;  but 
these  facts  were  not  patent  to  the  observer,  and  for  reasons 
which  will  presently  appear  she  herself  would  have  been  the  last 
to  mention  them.  There  was  something,  too,  in  the  look  of  her 
blue  eyes,  shaded  by  long  brown  lashes  which  had  retained  their 
colour,  that  forbade  any  expression  of  sympathy.  The  least 
experienced  of  mankind  would  have  seen  at  a  glance  that  she 
was  the  proudest  of  women,  and  would  have  guessed  that  she 
must  be  one  of  the  most  reticent.  She  moved  and  spoke  as 
though  Sigmundskron  were  still  what  it  had  been  in  former 
days,  and  she  had  brought  up  her  only  child  to  be  as  much  like 
herself,  as  it  was  possible  that  anything  so  young  and  fair  could 
resemble  what  was  already  a  type  of  age  and  gravity. 

Poverty  is  too  insignificant  a  word  to  describe  the  state  in 
which  the  mother  and  daughter  lived,  and  had  lived  for  many 
years.  They  had  no  means  of  subsistence  whatever  beyond  the 
pension  accorded  to  the  widow  of  Lieutenant  von  Sigmundskron, 

1 


2  GRETFENSTEIN. 

"  fallen  on  the  field  of  honour,"  as  the  official  report  had  ex 
pressed  it,  in  the  murderous  war  with  France.  He  had  been 
the  last  of  his  name  and  at  the  time  of  his  death  had  no  rela 
tions  living ;  two  years  earlier  he  had  married  a  girl  as  penniless 
and  as  noble  as  himself,  and  had  lived  to  see  a  daughter  born, 
destined  to  inherit  his  nobility,  his  penury,  and  the  bare  walls 
of  his  ancestral  home. 

Sigmundskron  had  been  a  very  grand  castle  in  its  day,  and 
the  half-ruined  walls  of  the  old  stronghold  still  rose  majestically 
from  the  summit  of  the  crag.  Indeed  the  ruin  was  more  appar 
ent  than  real  as  yet,  and  a  few  thousands  judiciously  expended 
upon  the  masonry  would  have  sufficed  to  restore  the  buildings 
to  their  original  completeness.  Many  a  newly  enriched  mer 
chant  or  banker  would  have  paid  a  handsome  price  for  the  place, 
though  the  land  was  gone  and  the  government  owned  the  forest 
up  to  the  very  foot  of  the  rock.  But  the  Lady  of  Sigmundskron 
would  rather  have  starved  to  death  in  her  vaulted  chamber  than 
have  taken  half  the  gold  in  Swabia  to  sign  away  her  dead  hus 
band's  home.  Moreover,  there  was  Greif,  and  Greif  was  to 
marry  Hilda,  after  which  all  would  be  well  again.  Greif,  with 
his  money,  would  build  and  restore  and  furnish  the  old  castle, 
and  bring  back  the  breath  of  life  into  the  ancient  halls  and  cor 
ridors.  But  in  order  that  Greif  might  marry  Hilda,  it  was  nec 
essary  that  Hilda  should  grow  up  beautiful,  and  to  grow  up  at 
all,  it  was  necessary  that  Hilda  should  be  fed. 

It  had  come  to  that,  to  the  very  question  of  food,  of  mere 
bread  to  eat.  There  was  not  enough  for  two,  but  Hilda  must 
not  starve.  That  was  the  secret  which  no  one,  not  even  Hilda 
herself  must  ever  understand.  During  the  first  years,  it  had 
not  been  so  hard  to  live.  There  had  been  a  few  poor  jewels 
to  sell,  a  few  odds  and  ends  that  had  brought  a  little  money. 
While  Hilda  was  a  little  child  it  had  been  easier,  for  she  had 
needed  but  few  clothes  and,  being  little,  had  needed  to  eat  less. 
But  at  last  there  had  come  a  day  when  Fran  von  Sigmundskron, 
not  so  thin  nor  so  pale  as  now,  had  seen  a  hungry  look  stealing 
into  the  eyes  of  the  fair-haired  girl.  It  was  little  enough  that 
they  had  between  them,  but  the  mother  said  to  herself  that  she 
could  keep  alive  with  less.  The  careful  economy  which  bought 
nothing  not  capable  of  sustaining  life  and  strength  could  go  no 
further.  There  were  but  so  many  pence  a  day  for  food,  and  to 
expend  more  to-day  was  to  starve  to-morrow.  From  that  mo- 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  3 

ment  Frau  von  Sigmundskrori  began  to  complain  of  headache, 
and  especially  of  loss  of  appetite.  She  could  not  eat,  she  said. 
She  did  not  think  there  was  anything  the  matter,  and  she  would 
doubtless  be  better  in  a  few  days.  But  the  days  ran  on  to 
weeks,  the  weeks  to  months,  and  the  months  to  years,  and  Hilda 
grew  tall  and  fair,  unconsciously  eating  her  mother's  portion  of 
the  daily  bread.  No  hermit  ever  lived  upon  so  little  as  sufficed 
for  the  baroness ;  no  perishing,  shipwrecked  wretch  ever  meas 
ured  out  so  carefully  the  ounce  of  biscuit  that  must  maintain 
life  from  day  to  day ;  no  martyr  ever  submitted  more  patiently 
and  silently  to  his  sufferings.  But  Hilda  grew,  and  the  years 
sped  on,  and  Greif  would  come  in  time. 

Greif,  upon  whom  such  great  hopes  were  centred,  was  a  dis 
tant  cousin  as  well  as  a  neighbour.  The  relationship  was  on 
the  side  of  Hilda's  mother,  whose  grandfather  had  been  a 
Greifenstein,  and  who  might  have  been  expected  to  accept  some 
assistance  from  her  rich  connexions,  especially  as  she  was  quite 
willing  that  her  daughter  should  marry  their  only  son.  But 
the  baroness  was  a  woman  whose  pride  forbade  her  to  accept 
under  the  pressure  of  necessity  what  had  not  been  offered 
freely  in  other  times.  It  must  be  admitted  also  that  the  Greif- 
ensteins,  though  well  aware  that  the  Sigmundskrons  were  ex 
tremely  poor,  were  far  from  suspecting  that  they  were  in  need 
of  bread.  They  knew  that  the  castle  was  still  the  unhampered 
property  of  the  two  ladies,  and  they  supposed  that  if  things  were 
really  in  a  bad  state,  the  baroness  would  raise  money  upon  it. 
She  never  alluded  to  her  affairs  when  she  was  with  her  relations, 
and  excused  herself  from  asking  them  to  stay  with  her,  on  the 
ground  of  her  poor  health.  On  rare  occasions  Greifenstein  and 
his  wife  drove  over  to  the  castle,  and  were  invariably  admitted 
by  the  same  soberly-dressed,  middle-aged  woman,  who  showed 
them  into  the  same  old-fashioned  room,  whence,  having  made 
their  visit,  they  returned  to  the  outer  gate  by  the  way  they  had 
come.  That  is  all  they  ever  saw  of  Sigmundskron.  Twice  in 
the  year,  also,  Hilda  and  her  mother  were  invited  to  stay  a 
fortnight  at  Greifenstein,  but  no  one  would  have  supposed  from 
their  behaviour  that  the  luxury  of  the  latter  place  surprised 
them,  or  seemed  in  any  way  preferable  to  what  they  enjoyed  at 
home.  Hilda's  education  had  not  been  neglected.  Among  her 
earliest  recollections  was  her  mother's  constant  injunction  never 
to  make  remarks  upon  what  she  saw  in  other  houses.  The  child 


4  GREIFENSTEIN. 

was  not  long  in  learning  what  the  warning  meant,  and  as  she 
had  inherited  a  plentiful  share  of  her  mother's  pride  she  almost 
unconsciously  imitated  her  mother's  behaviour.  Greif  himself 
was  the  only  person  who  might  have  known  something  of  the 
true  state  of  the  case ;  but  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  be  in 
love  with  his  cousin  ever  since  they  had  been  children  he  would 
have  feared  to  hurt  her  feelings  by  asking  questions.  For 
Hilda  was  reticent  even  with  him,  not  from  any  shame  at  the 
idea  of  being  thought  poor,  but  because  she  was  too  proud  to 
have  it  thought  that  either  she  or  her  mother  could  ever  need 
the  help  of  the  Greifensteins. 

Furthermore,  if  the  baroness's  reluctance  to  ask  for  assistance 
has  not  been  sufficiently  explained,  there  is  one  more  consider 
ation  which  might  alone  have  sufficed  to  account  for  her  con 
duct.  Between  her  and  Greif's  mother  there  existed  a  great 
and  wholly  insurmountable  antipathy.  She  could  not  under 
stand  how  Greifenstein  could  have  married  such  a  woman. 
There  was  a  mystery  about  it  which  she  had  never  fathomed. 
Greifenstein  himself  was  a  stern,  silent  man  of  military  appear 
ance,  a  mighty  hunter  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  a  sort  of 
grizzled  monument  of  aristocratic  strength,  tough  as  leather, 
courteous  in  his  manner,  with  that  stiff  courtesy  that  never 
changes  under  any  circumstances,  rigid  in  his  views,  religious, 
loyal,  full  of  the  prejudices  that  make  the  best  subjects  in  a 
kingdom  and  the  bitterest  opponents  of  all  change. 

In  appearance  and  manner  Frau  von  Greifenstein  presented 
the  most  complete  contrast  to  her  husband.  She  had  been 
pretty,  fair  and  sprightly  in  her  youth,  she  was  now  a  faded 
blonde,  full  of  strange  affectations  and  stilted  sentiments. 
Possessing  but  indifferent  taste,  she  nevertheless  devoted  much 
time  to  the  adornment  of  her  person.  She  was  small  of  stature, 
but  delicately  made,  and  if  her  nervous  desire  to  please  had 
granted  to  her  outward  personality  a  moment's  repose  during 
the  day,  she  might  still  have  passed  muster  as  a  fairly  good- 
looking  woman.  Unfortunately  she  was  animated  by  an  unceas 
ing  activity  in  trivial  matters,  and  was  rarely  silent.  Some 
women  make  one  think  of  a  printed  page  in  which  there  are 
too  many  italics,  and  too  many  useless  marks  of  exclamation. 
At  first,  their  constant  cries  of  admiration  and  outbursts  of 
enthusiasm  produce  a  vague  sense  of  uneasiness  in  the  listener, 
which  soon  develops  to  a  feeling  of  positive  distress  and  generally 


GREIFENSTEIN.  5 

ends  in  a  real  and  deep-rooted  dislike.  At  the  beginning  one 
looks  about  anxiously  for  the  object  which  could  produce  so 
grotesque  a  smile.  There  is  nothing,  for  the  conversation  has 
been  as  lead,  but  the  smile  does  not  subside ;  it  only  passes 
through  the  endless  variations  that  succeed  each  other  from  the 
inane  grin  to  the  affected  simper  which  is  meant  to  be  tender. 
The  whole  face  moves  perpetually,  as  the  facial  muscles  of  a 
corpse,  excited  by  an  electric  current,  seem  to  parody  all  the 
expression  of  living  human  sentiment. 

But  Frau  von  Greifenstein  was  not  in  reality  so  foolish  as 
might  have  been  thought.  Her  silliness  was  superficial.  One 
part  of  her  life  had  been  full  of  strange  circumstances,  and  if 
the  whole  truth  were  told  it  would  appear  that  she  had  known 
how  to  extract  a  large  amount  of  personal  advantage  from 
situations  which  to  many  persons  would  have  seemed  hopeless. 
She  and  her  husband  rarely  left  their  castle  in  the  Black  For 
est,  and  it  might  naturally  be  supposed  that  their  life  there  was 
exceedingly  dull  and  monotonous.  In  her  own  heart  Clara  von 
Greifenstein  recognised  that  her  present  luxurious  retirement 
was  a  paradise  compared  with  the  existence  she  must  have  led 
if  she  had  not  known  how  to  help  herself  at  the  right  moment. 
During  the  earlier  years  of  her  marriage,  the  recollection  of  her 
antecedents  had  been  so  painful  as  to  cause  her  constant  anxiety, 
and  at  one  time  she  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  keep  a  sum  of 
money  about  her,  as  though  expecting  to  make  a  sudden  and 
unexpected  journey.  But  five  and  twenty  years  and  more  had 
passed,  without  bringing  any  untoward  incident,  and  she  felt 
herself  very  secure  in  her  position.  Moreover  a  son  had  been 
born  to  her  and  was  growing  up  to  be  very  like  his  father. 
Without  Greif  there  is  no  knowing  what  turn  affairs  might 
have  taken,  for  although  Clara's  husband  maintained  towards 
her  the  same  stiffly  considerate  behaviour  which  had  always 
characterised  him  in  their  relations  to  each  other,  he  certainly 
admitted  to  himself  that  she  was  not  growing  old  gracefully ; 
and  it  is  even  possible  that,  in  some  remote  glen  of  the  forest, 
his  grave  features  may  have  occasionally  allowed  themselves  a 
look  of  sorrowful  regret,  or  even  of  actual  repugnance,  when  he 
thought  of  his  wife's  spasmodic  smiles  and  foolish  talk.  Possi 
bly,  too,  he  may  have  sometimes  speculated  upon  her  probable 
condition  before  she  had  married  her  first  husband,  for  he  him 
self  had  found  her  a  widow  of  apparently  little  more  than  five 


6  GREIFENSTEIN. 

and  twenty  years  of  age.  But  if  any  suggestion  at  all  derogatory 
to  Greifenstein  had  presented  itself  to  his  mind,  his  pride  would 
assuredly  have  lost  no  time  in  smothering  the  thought.  Was  she 
not  the  mother  of  Greif  ?  And  besides,  if  all  were  to  be  told,  was 
there  not  an  unpleasantly  dark  spot  in  his  own  family,  in  the  shape 
of  his  half-brother,  Kuno  von  Rieseneck?  Indeed  the  existence 
of  Kuno  von  Rieseneck,  concerning  whom  Clara  knew  nothing, 
was  the  reason  why  Greifenstein  had  lived  for  so  many  years  in 
the  country,  only  travelling  outside  of  Germany  when  he  trav 
elled  at  all.  He  wondered  that  his  wife,  being  ignorant  of  the 
story,  should  be  willing  to  share  the  solitude  of  the  Black  Forest 
without  a  murmur,  and  her  submission  in  itself  suggested  that 
she,  too,  might  have  some  good  cause  for  preferring  a  retired  life. 
But  if  he  had  been  satisfied  with  what  he  knew  of  her  five  and 
twenty  years  ago,  he  was  not  the  man  to  allow  himself  any  dis 
satisfaction  now  that  Clara  was  the  mother  of  that  stalwart 
young  fellow  who  was  heir  to  all  the  Greifenstein  property. 

Tn  the  month  of  July  Greif  was  to  come  home  from  the 
University,  and  immediately  afterwards  Hilda  and  her  mother 
were  to  come  over  for  their  half-yearly  visit.  The  ancient  place 
where  this  family  meeting  was  convened  was  so  unlike  most 
castles  as  to  deserve  a  word  of  description. 

The  Swabian  Black  Forest  is  literally  black,  save  when  the 
winter  snow  is  heavy  on  the  branches  of  the  huge  trees  and  lies 
in  drifts  beneath  them,  covering  the  soft  carpet  of  fir  needles  to 
the  depth  of  many  feet.  The  landscape  is  extremely  melancholy 
and  in  many  parts  is  absolutely  monotonous.  At  intervals  of 
several  miles  the  rock  juts  suddenly  out  of  the  forest,  generally 
at  places  where  the  Nagold,  more  a  torrent  than  a  river,  makes 
a  sharp  bend.  Many  of  these  steep  and  stony  promontories  are 
crowned  by  ancient  strongholds,  chiefly  in  ruins,  though  a  very 
few  are  still  in  repair  and  are  inhabited  by  their  owners.  The 
name  of  Greifenstein  will  not  be  found  on  any  map  of  the 
district,  but  those  who  know  that  wild  and  unfrequented  country 
will  recognise  the  spot.  The  tumbling  stream  turns  upon  itself 
at  a  sharp  angle,  swirling  round  the  base  of  a  precipitous  and 
wedge-like  cliff.  So  steep  are  the  sides  that  they  who  chose  the 
summit  for  a  fortress  saw  no  need  of  building  any  protection, 
save  one  gigantic  wall  which  bestrides  the  wedge  of  rock,  thus 
cutting  off  a  triangular  platform,  between  the  massive  bulwark 
and  the  two  precipices  that  meet  at  the  apex  of  the  figure. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  7 

This  single  fortification  is  a  solid  piece  of  masonry,  enormously 
thick  and  of  great  height ;  its  two  extremities  being  surmounted 
by  pointed  towers,  connected  by  a  covered  walk  along  the  top 
of  the  wall,  which,  even  at  that  height,  is  fully  six  feet  wide 
and  nearly  a  hundred  in  length.  This  was  the  rampart  behind 
which  the  Greifensteins  had  dwelt  in  security  through  many 
generations,  in  the  stormy  days  of  the  robber  barons.  So  sure 
were  they  of  their  safety,  that  they  had  built  their  dwelling- 
place  on  the  other  side  of  the  bulwark  in  a  manner  that  offered 
no  suggestion  of  war  or  danger.  The  house  was  Gothic  in  style, 
full  of  windows  and  ornamented  with  spacious  balconies  and 
much  fine  stonework.  The  three-cornered  platform  was  con 
verted  into  a  flower-garden,  surrounded  by  a  parapet.  Pro 
tected  on  the  north  side  by  the  huge  wall,  and  fully  exposed  to 
the  southern  sun,  the  plants  throve  in  an  almost  artificial  spring, 
and  in  the  summer  jets  of  water  played  in  the  marble  basins 
and  cooled  the  hot,  pine-scented  air. 

One  narrow  gate,  barely  wide  enough  for  two  persons  to  pass 
abreast,  gave  access  to  this  paradise  through  the  grey,  window- 
less  mass  of  masonry  by  which  it  was  separated  from  the  mel 
ancholy  forest  without.  One  small  building  only  was  visible 
on  the  side  of  the  woods,  scarcely  fifty  yards  from  the  gate. 
This  was  a  small,  square,  stone  tower,  half  overgrown  with  brush 
and  creepers,  and  evidently  abandoned  to  decay.  It  was  known 
in  the  family  and  neighbourhood  as  the  "  Hunger-Thurm,"  or 
Hunger  Tower,  as  having  been  used  as  a  place  for  starving 
prisoners  to  death,  in  the  fine  old  days  when  the  lords  of  Greif- 
enstein  did  as  they  judged  good  in  their  own  eyes.  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron  used  to  look  curiously  at  the  grey  building  when 
she  was  staying  with  her  relations.  She  could  have  described 
the  sufferings  of  the  poor  wretches  who  had  perished  there  as 
well  as  any  one  of  themselves  or  better.  Not  twenty  miles  from 
all  the  luxury  that  dwelt  behind  that  lofty  bulwark,  she  had 
been  starving  herself  for  years  in  order  that  her  only  child  might 
live.  And  yet  the  well-fed  woodmen  touched  their  caps  and 
their  rosy  wives  and  daughters  curtsied  to  the  "  Lady  Baroness  " 
who,  as  they  told  each  other,  spent  her  life  in  the  towers  of  Sig 
mundskron  hoarding  untold  wealth  which  would  one  day  belong 
to  the  golden-haired  Lady  Hilda.  They  knew,  for  the  knowl 
edge  could  not  be  kept  from  them  and  their  kind,  how  very  few 
were  the  silver  pieces  which  were  ever  seen  in  the  hands  of  old 


8  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

Berbel,  when  she  came  down  to  the  village  market  to  buy  food, 
and  they  naturally  concluded  that  the  baroness  was  a  miser  even 
like  some  of  themselves,  keeping  her  store  of  gold  in  a  broken 
teapot  somewhere  among  those  turrets  in  a  spot  known  only  to 
the  owls.  It  is  also  possible  that  Berbel  —  her  name  was  Bar 
bara  —  encouraged  the  idea,  thinking  it  better  that  her  beloved 
mistresses  should  be  thought  avaricious  than  poor.  The  burgo 
master  of  the  hamlet,  who  had  to  take  off  his  coat  in  order  to 
sign  his  name  when  that  momentous  operation  was  unavoidable, 
but  who  was  supposed  to  know  vastly  more  than  the  school 
master,  used  to  talk  about  certain  mines  in  Silesia,  owned  by 
the  Sigmundskrons ;  and  once  or  twice  he  went  so  far  as  to 
assure  his  hearers  that  gold  and  even  diamonds  were  found 
there  in  solid  blocks  as  big  as  his  own  Maass-Krug,  that  porten 
tous  jug  from  which  he  derived  inspiring  thoughts  for  conversa 
tion,  or  peaceful  satisfaction  in  solitude,  as  the  case  might  be. 
All,  however,  agreed  in  predicting  that  things  would  go  much 
better  when  the  young  gentleman  of  Greifenstein  was  married 
to  the  young  lady  of  Sigmundskron. 

On  that  warm  afternoon  in  July  when  Greif  was  expected,  his 
father  took  his  gun,  though  there  was  little  to  shoot  at  that 
season,  and  sallied  forth  on  foot  along  the  broad  road  that  led 
to  the  distant  railway  station.  The  portly  gatekeeper  smiled 
pleasantly  as  he  stood  looking  after  his  master.  For  many 
years,  whenever  the  student  was  to  come  home,  old  Greifenstein 
had  gone  down  that  road,  in  the  same  way,  without  a  word  to 
any  one,  but  having  that  same  twinkle  of  happy  anticipation  in 
his  eyes,  which  was  never  seen  there  at  any  other  time.  Very 
generally,  too,  the  laden  carriage  came  rumbling  up  to  the  gate 
with  Greif's  belongings,  and  an  hour  or  two  passed  before  father 
and  son  emerged  on  foot  from  the  first  trees  of  the  forest.  To 
day  also,  the  master  had  started  betimes  and  it  would  be  long 
before  he  heard  the  horses'  bells  below  him  in  the  valley.  He 
walked  quickly,  as  active  men  do  when  they  are  alone,  and  there 
is  no  one  to  hinder  them,  stopping  now  and  then  to  see  which 
way  a  hare  sprang,  or  pausing  to  listen  when  his  quick  ear 
caught  the  distant  tread  of  a  buck.  He  knew  that  he  might 
walk  for  miles  without  meeting  a  human  being.  The  road  was 
his,  the  land  was  his,  the  trees  were  his.  There  was  no  felling 
to  be  done  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  no  one  but  himself  or  his 
men  had  any  right  to  be  prowling  about  the  woods.  In  the 


GREIFENSTEIN.  9 

perfect  solitude  his  features  relaxed  a  little  and  their  expression 
changed.  The  glad  anticipation  of  the  meeting  with  his  son 
•was  still  in  his  eyes,  but  in  the  rest  of  his  face  there  was  a  weary 
look  which  those  who  knew  him  best  would  not  have  recognised. 
He  was  thinking  how  different  life  would  seem  if  Greif  and  he 
were  to  be  the  only  inhabitants  of  the  old  home  during  the 
next  dozen  years.  Then  he  stiffened  his  neck  suddenly  and 
strode  on. 

At  last  the  far  off  tinkling  of  bells  came  up  to  him  from  the 
depths  of  the  forest,  with  the  dull  thud  of  horses'  hoofs  that 
echoed  among  the  trees.  He  quickened  his  pace,  knowing  at 
how  great  a  distance  the  sounds  could  be  heard.  Ten  minutes 
elapsed  before  the  carriage  came  in  sight,  and  then  almost  in 
stantly  a  loud  shout  rang  through  the  woods,  followed  by  an 
answer  from  old  Greifenstein,  deeper,  but  quite  as  strong. 

"  Father ! " 

"  Greif ! " 

Greif  had  leaped  down  from  his  place  and  was  running  up 
the  hill  at  a  pace  that  would  have  tried  the  horses.  In  a  mo 
ment  more  the  two  tall  men  were  in  each  other's  arms,  kissing 
each  other  on  the  cheek. 

At  three  and  twenty  the  student  looked  as  much  like  his 
father  as  a  young  and  fair  man  can  look  like  an  elderly  dark 
one.  Their  features  were  the  same,  both  had  the  same  sinewy 
firmness  of  build  and  the  same  eyes ;  but  Greif 's  close-cut  golden 
hair  and  delicate  moustache  gave  him  a  brilliancy  his  father  had 
never  possessed.  He  seemed  to  bring  the  light  with  him  into 
the  deep  shade  of  the  glen  where  they  met.  One  looking  at 
him  would  have  felt  instinctively  that  he  was  made  to  wear  the 
gleaming  uniform  of  a  Prussian  Lifeguard,  rather  than  the 
sober  garments  of  a  civilian.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was 
dressed  like  an  Englishman,  and  would  probably  have  been 
taken  for  one,  to  his  own  intense  disgust,  in  any  European 
crowd. 

"  And  how  is  the  mother  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  somewhat  formal 
tone,  as  soon  as  the  first  embrace  was  over.  He  had  been 
brought  up  with  dutiful  ideas. 

"Your  mother  is  exceedingly  well,"  answered  Greifenstein, 
whose  manner  also  stiffened  perceptibly.  There  was  a  moment's 
pause. 

Perhaps  it  was  in  the  hope  of  dissipating  that  awkward  feel- 


10  GREIFENSTEIN. 

ing  which  somehow  or  other  always  made  itself  apparent  when 
the  Lady  of  Greifenstein  was  mentioned,  that  her  husband 
pulled  out  his  case  and  offered  Greif  a  cigar. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  pipe,"  said  the  latter,  and  as  the  car 
riage  came  up  to  where  they  were  standing  he  snatched  his  bag 
off  the  back  seat.  "  It  will  make  you  feel  young  again,"  he 
laughed,  as  he  took  a  paper  parcel  from  the  receptacle.  "  It  is  a 
'  Korps  '  pipe,  colours  and  tassels  and  all." 

Greifenstein,  one  of  whose  favourite  hobbies  was  the  advan 
tage  of  pipes  in  general,  was  as  delighted  as  a  boy  with  the 
little  gift,  and  instantly  produced  a  huge  silver  tobacco  box  out 
of  the  depths  of  his  shooting  coat,  from  which  he  began  to  fill 
the  china  bowl. 

"  Thank  you,  my  boy,"  he  said  as  he  drew  the  air  through  the 
unlighted  pipe  to  assure  himself  that  there  was  no  obstruction. 

Then  he  took  out  an  old-fashioned  flint  and  steel,  lighted 
a  bit  of  tinder  with  a  practised  hand  and  laid  it  upon  the 
tobacco.  He  made  a  sign  to  the  coachman,  who  urged  his 
sturdy  Mecklenburg  horses  up  the  hill  and  was  soon  out  of 
sight.  The  two  men  walked  slowly  forwards  and  smoked  in 
silence  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  When  is  Hilda  coming  ? "  asked  Greif  at  last,  when  he 
thought  he  had  allowed  a  decent  interval  to  elapse  before  put 
ting  the  question  which  chiefly  interested  him. 

"She  will  come  to-morrow,  with  her  mother,"  replied  Greifen 
stein,  not  noticing,  or  pretending  not  to  notice,  the  faint  blush 
that  rose  in  his  son's  face. 

"  I  suppose  we  must  wait  another  year,"  remarked  Greif  with 
a  sigh.  "  It  seems  absurd  that  at  my  age  I  should  not  have 
finished  my  education." 

"  You  will  be  glad,  when  you  are  married,  that  you  have  your 
military  service  behind  you." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  the  young  man  absently. 

"  You  do  not  know ! "  exclaimed  his  father  in  surprise. 
"  Would  you  like  to  go  and  live  with  Hilda  in  a  garrison  town 
while  you  served  your  year  as  a  volunteer  ?  " 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  that.  I  have  thought  lately  that, 
after  all,  I  had  better  take  active  service.  Would  you  object  ?  " 

Greifenstein  was  taken  by  surprise  and  would  possibly  have 
uttered  a  loud  exclamation  if  he  had  not  long  ago  schooled 
himself  to  be  incapable  of  any  such  breach  of  gravity.  But  he 
did  not  answer  the  question. 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  11 

"  Father,"  began  Greif  again  after  a  pause,  "  is  it  true  that 
you  ever  had  a  brother  ?  " 

Greif enste iu's  tough  face  turned  slowly  grey. 

"  A  half-brother,"  he  answered  with  an  effort.  "  My  mother 
married  again." 

Greif  glanced  sideways  at  his  father  and  saw  that  he  was 
oddly  affected  by  the  inquiry.  But  the  young  man  had  his  own 
reasons  for  wishing  to  know  the  truth. 

"Why  have  you  never  told  me  that  I  had  an  uncle?"  he 
asked. 

"  He  is  no  uncle  of  yours,  my  boy,  nor  brother  of  mine ! " 
answered  Greifenstein  bitterly. 

"  I  fonght  about  him  the  other  day.     That  is  all,"  said  Greif. 

"  He  is  not  worth  fighting  for." 

"  Then  the  story  is  true  ?  " 

"  What  story  ?  "  Greifenstein  stopped  short  in  his  walk  and 
fixed  his  sharp  eyes  on  his  son's  face.  "What  story?  What 
do  you  know  ?  " 

"  A  man  told  me  that  your  brother  had  been  discharged  from 
the  army  with  infamy  —  infam  cassirt  —  and  condemned  to  im 
prisonment,  for  betraying  some  arsenal  or  armoury  into  the 
hands  of  the  rebels  in  1848.  I  told  him  —  well  —  that  he  lied. 
What  else  could  I  say?  I  had  never  heard  of  the  scoundrel." 

"  You  were  quite  right,"  answered  Greifenstein,  who  was  very 
pale.  "  I  never  meant  that  you  should  know,  any  more  than 
your  mother.  That  is  the  reason  why  we  live  in  the  country  all 
the  year.  But  I  thought  it  would  come  —  I  feared  that  some 
one  would  tell  you !  " 

"I  do  not  think  that  any  one  will  repeat  the  experiment," 
observed  Greif,  turning  away  and  looking  down  at  the  torrent, 
which  was  visible  between  the  trees.  "  And  what  has  become 
of  this  Herr  von  Rieseneck,  if  that  was  his  name  ?  " 

"  He  is  alive  and  well.  Rich,  for  anything  I  know  to  the 
contrary.  He  escaped  from  the  fortress  where  he  was  confined 
and  made  his  way  to  South  America.  I  had  not  seen  him  for 
some  time  before  that  disgraceful  affair.  We  had  quarrelled 
about  other  matters,  and  he  had  entered  the  Prussian  service." 

"  I  wish  you  had  told  me  about  him  before." 

"Why  should  I?  Do  you  think  it  is  a  pleasant  subject  for 
conversation?  As  his  name  was  not  mine,  thank  God,  there 
was  a  chance  that  you  might  never  know  nor  hear  of  him." 


12  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  T  see  why  you  do  not  wish  me  to  enter  the  army." 
"Yes,"  answered  Greifenstein  laconically,  and  he  once  more 
walked  forward. 

For  some  time  neither  spoke.  Greifenstein's  profound  hatred 
of  his  dishonoured  brother  was  too  deeply  stirred  to  allow  of 
his  continuing  the  conversation,  and  in  a  different  way  the 
younger  man  was  quite  as  much  affected  as  his  father.  When 
the  student  with  whom  he  had  fought  had  cast  in  his  teeth  the 
evil  deeds  of  Kuno  von  Rieseneck,  he  had  unhesitatingly  denied 
the  story,  thinking  it  a  merely  gratuitous  insult  invented  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment.  No  one  present  during  the  altercation 
had  thought  fit  to  confirm  the  tale,  and  Greif  had  wreaked  his 
vengeance  upon  his  enemy  in  the  most  approved  fashion,  in  the 
presence  of  the  assembled  "  Korps."  But  the  words  had  taken 
effect  and  he  had  determined  to  learn  from  his  father's  lips 
whether  they  had  any  foundation  in  fact.  Being  satisfied  of 
the  truth  of  the  story,  however,  his  mood  changed.  Xo  one 
who  has  not  studied  the  character  of  the  German  gentleman  — 
the  old-fashioned  Edelmann — will  readily  understand  how 
directly  he  feels  himself  injured  by  the  disgrace  of  a  relative 
even  very  distantly  removed.  lie  has  often  little  enough  in 
the  world  but  his  name  and  his  pride  of  caste,  but  as  compared 
with  the  former  he  holds  his  life  as  of  no  value  whatsoever,  and 
where  the  latter  is  concerned  he  will  suffer  much  rather  than 
offend  the  exclusiveness  of  his  class  by  derogating  from  the 
most  insignificant  of  its  prejudices.  He  is  not  afraid  of  pov 
erty.  No  one  can  maintain  the  position  of  a  gentleman  with 
more  exiguous  resources  than  often  fall  to  his  share.  Rather 
than  leave  the  smallest  debt  of  honour  unpaid,  he  will  unhesi 
tatingly  take  his  own  life.  That  a  man  should  suffer  himself 
to  live  after  doing  such  a  deed  as  had  broken  Kuno  von  Riese- 
neck's  career  seems  to  him  a  crime  against  humanity.  He  is 
often  called  avaricious,  because,  like  Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  he 
is  often  very,  very  poor;  but  lie  has  never  been  called  a  coward, 
nor  a  traitor,  by  any  man,  or  class  of  men,  who  knew  him.  All 
gentlemen  throughout  the  world  are  brothers,  it  is  true,  for  to 
be  a  gentleman  is  to  be  brave,  honest,  courteous,  and  nothing- 
more.  But  the  gentlemen  of  different  nations  are  like  brothers 
brought  up  m  different  schools.  An  Englishman  who  should 
demand  satisfaction  by  arms,  of  another  Englishman,  for  a 
hasty  word  spoken  in  jest,  would  be  considered  a  lunatic  in  the 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  13 

clubs,  and  if  he  carried  his  warlike  intentions  into  effect  with 
the  consent  of  his  adversary,  and  killed  his  man,  the  law  would 
hang  him  without  mercy  as  a  common  murderer.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  German  who  should  refuse  a  duel,  or  not  demand  one 
if  insulted,  would  be  dismissed  from  the  army  and  made  an 
outcast  from  society.  And  these  things  do  not  depend  upon 
civilisation,  since  modern  Germany  is  probably  more  civilised 
than  modern  England.  They  depend  upon  national  character. 

When  Greif  heard  of  his  uncle's  existence,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  of  his  disgrace,  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  cloud  had  de 
scended  upon  his  own  brilliant  future.  He  had  long  nursed  in 
secret  his  desire  for  a  military  life,  and  had  often  wondered  at 
his  father's  unwillingness  to  discuss  the  matter.  He  now 
suddenly  understood  the  true  state  of  the  case  and  realised,  by 
the  measure  of  his  disappointment,  the  magnitude  to  which  his 
hopes  had  grown.  But  there  was  something  more  than  this  in 
the  despondency  which  seized  upon  him  so  quickly  and  would 
not  be  thrown  off. 

"  Does  Hilda  know  this  ?  "  he  asked,  at  length  giving  expres 
sion  to  his  thoughts. 

Greifenstein  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"  I  do  not  think  her  mother  would  have  told  her,"  he  said 
after  a  time.  "  But  her  mother  knows." 

"And  my  mother  does  not?" 

"  No,  nor  never  shall,  if  I  can  help  it." 

If  the  two  men  spoke  little  on  their  homeward  walk  it  was 
not  for  lack  of  sympathy  between  them.  On  the  contrary,  if 
anything  could  strengthen  the  strong  bond  that  united  them,  it 
was  the  knowledge  that  they  had  a  secret  in  common  which 
they  must  keep  together. 


14  GKEIFENSTE1N. 


CHAPTER  II. 

To  suppose  that  Hilda,  at  eighteen  years  of  age,  was  like  the 
majority  of  young  girls  as  old  as  she,  would  be  to  imagine  that 
human  character  is  not  influenced  by  its  surroundings.  She 
was  neither  a  village  Gretchen,  such  as  Faust  loved  and  ruined, 
nor  was  she  the  omniscient  damsel  of  modern  society.  During 
the  greater  part  of  her  existence  she  had  lived  without  any 
companions  but  her  mother  and  the  faithful  Berbel.  But  she 
had  grown  up  in  a  wild  forest  country,  in  a  huge  dismantled 
stronghold,  of  which  the  windows  looked  out  over  the  tumbling 
torrent,  and  across  endless  thousands  of  giant  trees,  whose  dark 
tops  rose  like  sombre  points  of  shadow  out  of  the  deeper  shade 
below.  Even  the  sky  was  not  blue.  Half  a  kingdom  of  firs 
and  pines  and  hemlocks  drank  the  colour  from  the  air  and  left 
but  a  sober  neutral  tint  behind.  The  sun  does  not  give  half 
the  light  in  the  Black  Forest  that  he  gives  elsewhere.  As 
Hilda  had  never,  within  her  recollection,  seen  an  open  plain, 
much  less  a  city,  her  idea  of  the  world  beyond  those  leagues  of 
trees  in  which  she  lived  was  not  a  very  accurate  one.  She  could 
hardly  guess  what  the  streets  of  a  great  town  were  like,  or  what 
effect  a  crowd  of  civilised  people  would  produce  upon  her  sight. 
And  yet  she  was  far  from  ignorant.  There  were  books  enough 
left  at  Sigmundskron  for  her  education,  and  the  baroness  had 
done  what  was  in  her  power  to  impart  such  instruction  as  she 
could  command.  Hilda  had  probably  read  as  many  books  as 
most  girls  of  her  age,  and  had  read  them  more  carefully,  but 
she  was  very  far  from  loving  study  for  its  own  sake.  Her  time, 
too,  was  occupied  in  other  ways,  for  she  and  her  mother  did 
most  things  for  themselves,  as  was  to  be  expected  in  a  house 
hold  where  want  reigned  supreme  over  the  hours  of  every  day, 
from  sunrise  to  sunset. 

The  necessity  for  maintaining  appearances  was  small  indeed, 
but  such  as  it  was,  neither  mother  nor  daughter  could  avoid  it. 
No  one  could  predict  what  day  the  Greifensteins  would  choose 


GREIFENSTEIN.  15 

for  one  of  their  occasional  visits,  and  in  the  time  of  the  vaca 
tions  no  one  could  foresee  when  Greif  might  make  his  appear 
ance,  striding  over  the  wooded  hills  with  his  gun  and  his  dog 
to  spend  a  quiet  afternoon  with  Hilda  in  their  favourite  sunny 
corner  at  the  foot  of  the  dismantled  tower.  When  poverty  is 
to  be  concealed,  his  shadow  must  not  be  caught  lurking  at  the 
door  by  chance  visitors.  Nor  was  it  only  out  of  fear  of  being 
surprised  by  her  relations  that  the  quiet  baroness  insisted  that 
Hilda  and  even  Berbel  should  always  be  presentable.  Her 
pride  was  inseparably  united  with  that  rigid  self-respect  which, 
in  the  poor,  alone  saves  pride  from  being  ridiculous.  It  was 
indeed  marvellous  that  she  should  succeed  as  she  did  in  hiding 
the  extremity  of  her  need  from  the  Greifensteins,  but  it  must 
be  remembered  that  she  had  never  been  rich,  and  had  learned 
in  early  youth  many  a  lesson,  many  a  shift  of  economy  which 
now  stood  her  in  good  stead.  The  Germans  have  a  right  to 
be  proud  of  having  elevated  thrift  to  a  fine  art.  From  the 
Emperor  to  the  schoolmaster,  from  the  administration  of  the 
greatest  military  force  the  world  has  ever  seen  to  the  house 
keeping  of  the  meanest  peasant,  a  sober  appreciation  of  the 
value  of  money  is  the  prime  rule  by  which  everything  is  regu 
lated.  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  had  made  a  plan,  had  drawn 
up  a  tiny  budget  in  exact  proportion  with  the  pension  which 
was  her  only  means  of  subsistence,  and  thanks  to  her  unfailing 
health  had  never  departed  from  it.  The  expenditure  had 
indeed  been  so  closely  regulated  from  the  first,  that  she  had 
found  it  necessary  to  limit  herself  to  what  would  barely  support 
life,  in  order  not  to  stint  her  child's  allowance.  Being  by 
temperament  a  very  religious  woman,  she  attributed  to  Provi 
dence  that  success  in  rearing  Hilda  for  which  she  might  well 
have  thanked  her  own  iron  determination  and  untiring  efforts. 
If  ever  a  woman  deserved  the  help  of  Heaven  in  consideration 
of  having  bravely  helped  herself,  the  baroness  had  earned  that 
assistance.  So  far  as  the  ordinary  observer  could  judge,  how 
ever,  she  had  obtained  nothing  from  the  world  save  a  reputation 
for  avarice.  Hilda  was  too  much  accustomed  to  the  state  of 
things  in  which  she  had  grown  up,  to  appreciate  her  mother's 
sacrifices,  or  to  feel  towards  her  anything  like  warm  gratitude. 
She  herself  did  all  she  could,  and  that  was  not  little,  in  the 
struggle  for  existence.  It  is  even  possible  that  she  was  more 
grateful  to  Berbel,  than  to  the  baroness  herself.  For  Berbel 


16  GREIFENSTEIK. 

voluntarily  shared  privations,  to  which  the  two  ladies  were 
obliged  to  submit.  Berbel  was  faithful,  devoted,  uncom 
plaining,  cheerful ;  and  she  was  all  this,  not  for  the  sake  of  a 
servant's  pay,  since  her  wages  were  infmitesimally  small,  but 
out  of  pure  affection  for  her  mistress. 

Berbel  had  been  the  wife  of  Lieutenant  von  Sigmundskron's 
servant,  who  had  fallen  beside  his  master,  rifle  in  hand,  his  face 
to  the  enemy.  Mistress  and  maid  were  left  alike  widows  on 
the  same  day,  alike  young  and  portionless,  the  only  difference 
being  that  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  had  Hilda,  while  poor 
Berbel  was  childless.  Then  Berbel  refused  to  go  away,  once 
and  for  ever,  and  the  officer's  widow  accepted  the  lifelong  devo 
tion  offered  her,  and  the  three  cast  in  their  lot  together,  to  keep 
themselves  alive  as  best  they  could  beneath  the  only  roof  that 
was  left  to  them. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  had  been  very  much  surprised  when, 
on  a  sunny  June  morning,  three  years  before  the  time  of  which 
I  write,  Greifenstein  had  appeared  alone,  arrayed  in  the  most 
correct  manner,  instead  of  being  clad  in  the  shooting"  coat  he 
usually  wore.  She  had  been  still  more  astonished  when  he 
formally  proposed  to  her  an  engagement  by  which  Greif  should 
marry  Hilda  so  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  studies  at  the  Uni 
versity.  He  told  her  frankly  why  he  desired  the  alliance.  She 
knew  of  Rieseneck's  disgrace,  and  she  would  understand  that 
the  story  was  an  injury  to  Greif.  On  the  other  hand  he,  Greif's 
father,  had  never  done  anything  to  be  ashamed  of,  and  the  lad 
himself  was  growing  up  to  be  a  very  fine  fellow  and  would  be 
rich  —  Greifenstein  did  not  state  the  amount  of  his  fortune. 
lie  apprehended  that  his  cousin  would  consider  Greif  a  good 
match  from  a  worldly  point  of  view.  Furthermore,  though 
barely  twenty,  the  young  man  was  deeply  attached  to  Hilda, 
who  was  just  fifteen.  The  attachment  was  evidently  likely  to 
turn  into  love  when  both  should  be  three  or  four  years  older. 
If  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  would  consent,  a  preliminary,  verbal 
agreement  might  be  made,  subject  to  the  will  of  the  two  chil 
dren  when  the  right  time  should  come,  it  being  essentially 
necessary,  as  Greifenstein  remarked  in  his  stiffest  manner,  that 
two  young  people  should  love  each  other  sincerely  if  they  meant 
to  many. 

The  baroness  opened  her  clear  blue  eyes  very  wide,  as  though 
she  had  seen  a  coach  and  four  laden  with  sacks  of  gold  driving 


GEEIFEKSTEIK.  17 

through  the  old  gates  of  the  castle.  But  she  was  far  too  well 
bred  to  burst  into  tears,  or  to  exhibit  any  embarrassment,  or 
even  an  improper  amount  of  satisfaction.  She  replied  that  she 
was  much  obliged ;  that  she  was  poor,  and  that  Hilda  would 
inherit  nothing  whatsoever  except  Sigmundskron,  a  fact  which 
her  cousin  must  please  to  understand  from  the  first;  that,  if 
the  absence  of  any  dower  were  not  an  obstacle,  it  was  not  for 
her  to  create  difficulties ;  and,  finally,  that  she  believed  Hilda 
to  be  quite  as  much  attached  to  Greif,  as  Greif  to  her.  There 
upon  Berbel  was  sent  to  fetch  a  bottle  of  wine  —  there  had 
been  half  a  dozen  bottles  in  the  cellar  thirteen  years  ago,  and 
this  was  the  first  that  had  been  opened  —  and  Greifenstein 
refreshed  himself  therewith  and  departed,  as  stiffly,  courteously 
and  kindly  as  he  had  come. 

Greif  had  come  over  as  often  as  he  pleased  during'  his  vaca 
tions,  and  had  written  whenever  he  liked  during  his  terms. 
Never  having  seen  any  one  at  home  or  abroad  whom  he  con 
sidered  comparable  with  Hilda,  he  had  grown  up  to  love  her  as 
naturally  as  he  loved  the  pine-scented  air  of  his  home,  the  warm 
soft  sun,  or  the  still  beauty  of  the  forest.  Hilda  was  an  essen 
tial  part  of  his  life  and  being,  without  which  he  could  imagine 
no  future.  Year  by  year  it  grew  harder  to  say  good-bye,  and 
the  happiness  of  meeting  grew  deeper  and  more  real.  There 
was  a  pride  in  the  knowledge  that  she  was  for  him  only,  which 
played  upon  the  unconscious  selfishness  of  his  young  nature 
and  gave  him  the  most  profound  and  exquisite  delight.  At 
three  and  twenty  he  was  old  enough  to  understand  the  world 
about  him,  he  had  accomplished  his  year  of  obligatory  service 
in  the  army,  and  had  come  into  contact  with  all  sorts  of  men, 
things  and  ideas.  He  was  himself  a  man,  and  had  outgrown 
most  boyish  fallacies  and  illusions,  but  he  had  not  outgrown 
Hilda.  She  was  there,  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  in  the  towers 
of  Sigmundskron,  away  from  the  world  he  had  seen,  and 
maidenly  ignorant  of  all  it  contained,  waiting  for  him,  the 
incarnation  of  all  that  was  lovely,  and  young,  and  fair,  and 
spotless.  He  pitied  his  fellow-students,  who  loved  vulgarly 
whatever  came  into  their  way.  He  could  not  imagine  what 
life  would  be  without  Hilda.  It  was  a  strange  sort  of  love, 
too,  for  there  had  been  no  wooing ;  they  had  grown  up  for  each 
other  as  naturally  as  the  song-bird  for  its  mate.  There  had 
been  no  hindrances,  no  jealousies,  no  alternate  hopes  and  fears, 


18  GREIFENSTEIN. 

none  of  those  vicissitudes  to  which  love  is  heir.  Nothing  but 
the  calamity  of  death  could  interfere  with  the  fulfilment  of  their 
happiness,  and  perhaps  no  two  beings  ever  loved  each  other 
from  whom  death  seemed  so  far. 

Hilda  was  happy,  too,  in  her  own  way,  for  what  she  knew  of 
the  outer  world  was  what  she  saw  through  Greif's  eyes.  To 
him  the  greatest  of  all  blessings  would  be  to  come  back  to  the 
forest  and  never  to  leave  it  again,  and  Hilda  argued  that  the 
world  could  not  be  worth  seeing,  if  the  woods  were  so  vastly 
preferable  as  he  seemed  to  think.  She  felt  herself  to  be  what 
she  was  in  his  imagination,  a  part  of  the  nature  in  which  she 
had  grown  up,  as  much  as  the  oldest  and  tallest  fir  tree  on  the 
hillside.  People  who  spend  all  their  lives  in  unfrequented 
regions,  feel  a  sense  of  property  in  the  air,  the  earth  and  the 
water,  which  city-bred  folks  cannot  readily  understand.  They 
have  such  an  intimate,  unconscious  knowledge  of  the  seasons, 
the  weather,  the  growth  of  plants  and  the  habits  of  animals, 
that  it  seems  to  them  as  though  their  own  hearts  beat  in  every 
corner  of  the  world  around  them,  and  as  though  all  the  changes 
they  see  from  day  to  day  were  only  manifestations  of  their  own 
vitality.  They  may  not  see,  or  know  that  they  see,  beauties 
which  amaze  the  wanderer  who  visits  their  wilderness,  but  they 
feel  them  as  he  never  can,  and  feed  on  them  as  he  cannot  feed. 
Their  senses,  not  dulled  by  daily  close  contact  with  thousands 
of  indifferent  and  similar  objects,  nor  by  the  ceaseless  chatter 
of  their  fellow-beings,  see  sights  and  hear  sounds  altogether 
beyond  the  perceptions  of  gregarious  man.  The  infinite  variety 
of  nature,  as  compared  with  the  pitiful  monotony  of  the  works 
of  humanity,  produces  in  their  minds  an  activity  of  an  especial 
kind.  They  do  not  know  what  mental  weariness  means,  nor 
the  desire  for  nervous  excitement.  The  succession  of  morning 
and  evening  does  not  bore  them,  for  it  is  a  part  of  themselves, 
like  hunger  and  the  satisfaction  of  appetite,  thirst  and  the 
refreshing  draught  from  the  spring.  They  are  good,  though 
their  virtues  be  negative,  and  they  are  happy,  for  they  have 
never  heard  of  unhappiness.  Their  existence  is  the  very  oppo 
site  of  ours,  full  where  ours  is  empty,  empty  where  ours  is 
crowded  to  overflowing.  They  are  never  alone,  for  the  world 
is  their  companion,  they  are  never  hurried,  for  they  move  with 
time  itself,  whereas  our  existence  is  but  one  long  effort  to  out 
run  the  revolution  of  the  hours.  They  do  not  dream  of  fame, 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  19 

for  they  feel  the  eternity  of  perpetually  renewed  life  in  all  that 
surrounds  them;  they  have  never  heard  of  competition,  for 
their  only  rival  is  God  Himself. 

Hilda's  earliest  recollections  did  not  go  back  beyond  the  time 
when  she  had  been  brought  to  the  Black  Forest,  and  the  singular 
simplicity  of  her  life  made  the  past  years  seem  strangely  short. 
Children  whose  first  remembrances  are  full  of  new  impressions, 
grow  old  quickly,  while  those  to  whose  perceptions  little  is  offered 
grow  up  more  slowly,  and  more  naturally.  Other  conditions 
being  the  same,  these  latter  will  be  calmer,  healthier  and  more 
reasonable.  The  best  horse  is  not  the  one  which  is  made  to  do 
the  most  work  as  a  colt,  though  performing  dogs  must  learn 
their  tricks  as  puppies  if  they  are  to  learn  them  at  all.  Much 
in  life  depends  upon  the  truth  of  our  first  impressions,  and  as 
this,  in  its  turn,  depends  directly  upon  our  ability  to  judge 
what  we  see  and  hear,  it  is  clear  that  children  may  be  injured 
permanently  if  too  many  things  be  brought  within  the  sphere 
of  their  observation  before  they  have  learned  the  uses  of  hearing 
and  sight. 

The  grand  solitudes  of  the  forest,  the  imposing  calm  of 
nature  when  at  rest,  the  indescribable  magnificence  of  the  win 
ter  storms,  had  furnished  Hilda  with  her  first  deep  impressions. 
That  death,  of  which  her  mother  sometimes  spoke,  was  the  dis 
appearance  of  all  that  lived  beneath  the  soft,  silent  snow.  That 
mysterious  resurrection  of  the  dead  was  nature's  irresistible 
glad  leap  to  meet  the  sun,  as  the  noonday  shadows  shortened 
day  by  day ;  that  happy  life  to  come  was  the  far-off  summer, 
when  the  wind  would  sigh  and  whisper  again  among  the 
branches  he  had  so  rudely  handled  in  his  wrath,  when  all  the 
air  would  smell  of  the  warm  pines,  when  the  mayflower  would 
follow  the  hawthorn,  and  the  purple  gentian  take  the  may- 
flower's  place,  when  the  wild  pea-blossom  would  elbow  the 
forest  violet,  and  the  clover  and  wild  thyme  and  mint  would 
spring  up  thick  and  crisp  and  sweet  for  the  dainty  roebuck 
and  his  doe.  Hilda  used  to  think  that  the  souls  of  the  blessed 
would  at  last  take  their  bodies  again,  just  as  the  wildflowers  in 
the  wood  sprang  up  with  their  own  shape  and  beauty,  each 
according  to  the  little  seed  that  had  lain  dead  and  forgotten 
since  autumn  had  sighed  its  dirge  above  their  myriad  tiny 
graves,  burying  the  summer  as  sadly  as  men  bury  those  they 
dearly  love. 


20  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

And  yet  Hilda  never  put  any  of  those  thoughts  into  words, 
though  in  her  books  she  loved  best  those  words  that  expressed 
her  half-formulated  feelings.  Had  she  been  removed  to  the 
noise  and  the  whirl  of  city  life,  she  would  very  probably  have 
known  how  to  define  what  she  had  lost,  she  might  even  have 
made  others  feel  what  she  herself  had  so  keenly  felt.  But  in 
the  silent  towers  of  her  home,  or  amidst  that  noiseless,  ever 
growing  life  that  belongs  to  undisturbed  nature,  all  she  could 
have  wished  to  express  was  expressed  for  her,  in  a  grander 
language  than  that  of  man.  She  had  no  need  of  spending  long 
hours  in  reverie  and  contemplation,  as  people  do  who  are  not 
used  to  their  surroundings,  or  who  compare  their  present  with 
their  past.  Constant  occupation  had  become  a  part  of  her 
being,  and  unceasing  small  activity  in  household  matters  the 
condition  of  her  life.  Heaven  knows,  there  was  enough  to  do 
between  making  and  mending  everything  she  wore,  keeping  in 
order  even  the  small  part  of  the  gigantic  building  which  she 
and  her  mother  inhabited,  cultivating  as  best  she  could  the  plot 
of  ground  in  the  castle  yard  which  was  all  the  land  left  to  her, 
the  last  of  her  name,  and,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  manual  labour, 
in  maintaining  that  prescribed  amount  of  appearance,  from 
which  she  had  never  been  allowed  to  deviate  since  she  had  been 
a  little  child.  A  spotless  perfection  of  neatness  was  indeed  the 
only  luxury  left  within  reach  of  the  two  ladies,  and  for  that 
one  available  satisfaction  there  was  no  trouble  they  would  not 
cheerfully  undergo.  But  these  manifold  household  labours  did 
not  vulgarise  Hilda's  character.  If  she  enjoyed  the  luxury  of 
Greifenstein  during  her  half-yearly  visits,  it  was  not  because 
she  disliked  or  despised  her  own  home  life.  She  was  too  thor 
oughly  conscious  of  the  inevitable  to  groan  over  her  lot,  she 
was  too  strong  in  mind  and  body  to  desire  luxurious  idleness, 
and  she  never  imagined  that  a  woman  could  find  occupation 
except  in  household  duties.  Her  whole  existence  had  made  her 
so  simple  that  she  could  never  have  comprehended  that  com 
plicated  state  of  mind  which  is  so  delightful  to  society. 

Something  of  nature's  own  freshness,  too,  had  been  infused 
into  the  young  girl's  veins,  refreshing  and  renewing  the  life  in 
that  old  blood  of  which  she  was  the  last  descendant.  Blue  eyes 
are  rarely  very  bright.  Hilda's  seemed  to  have  a  special  vitality 
of  their  own,  which  gave  the  impression  that  they  must  shine  in 
the  dark  as  some  crystals  do  for  a  few  seconds  when  they  have 


GREIFENSTEIN.  21 

been  long  exposed  to  the  sun.  They  were  of  that  rare  type 
which  appear  to  sparkle  even  when  not  seen  directly,  not  merely 
reflecting  the  light  as  a  placid  pool  reflects  it,  but  making  it 
dance  and  change  as  sunshine  does  in  falling  water.  Hilda's 
hair  was  yellow,  and  yellow  hair  is  often  lustreless  as  the  pine 
dust  in  the  woods ;  but  hers  glowed,  as  it  were  by  its  own 
colour,  without  reflection,  out  of  the  very  abundance  of  vitality. 
Her  features  were  delicate  and  aquiline,  but  wei'e  saved  from 
any  look  of  deficient  strength  by  that  perfection  of  evenly- 
distributed  colour  which  comes  only  from  matchless  health  and 
untainted  blood,  combined  with  a  rare  strength  in  the  action  of 
the  heart.  Hilda  possessed  one  of  those  highly-favoured  organ 
isations  which  nature  occasionally  produces  as  normal  types  of 
what  humanity  should  be.  Such  people  bring  with  them  a 
radiance  that  nothing  can  extinguish,  not  even  extreme  old  age. 
Their  beauty  may  not  be  of  the  highest  type,  but  their  vitality 
is  irresistibly  attractive,  and  spreads  to  their  surroundings, 
undiminished  by  any  effort  they  make. 

When  Hilda  was  told  that  if  she  and  Greif  loved  each  other 
they  should  marry,  she  was  far  less  surpi'ised  than  her  mother 
had  been  when  old  Greifenstein  had  made  his  proposal.  It 
seemed  strange  to  the  baroness  that  her  daughter  should  not 
even  blush  a  little  on  learning  the  news.  But  Hilda  saw  no 
reason  for  blushing  and  did  not  feel  in  the  least  disconcerted. 
To  her  it  all  seemed  perfectly  natural.  She  had  always  loved 
Greif,  ever  since  she  could  remember  anything.  Why  should 
he  not  love  her?  And  if  they  loved  each  other,  they  would 
of  course  be  married  in  due  time.  It  was  but  the  fulfilment 
of  her  life,  after  all.  There  was  surely  nothing  in  the  idea  to 
cause  her  any  emotion.  Did  not  Heaven  dispose  everything  in 
the  best  possible  way,  and  was  not  this  the  best  possible  thing 
that  could  happen  ?  Did  the  hawk  mate  with  the  wren,  or  the 
wild  boar  with  the  doe  ?  But  the  baroness  did  not  understand. 
She  asked  Hilda  if  she  should  be  very  unhappy  if  Greif  died,  or 
if  he  married  some  one  else. 

"  God  will  not  be  so  unkind,"  answered  the  young  girl  simply. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  was  silent.  It  was  clear  that  Hilda, 
in  her  innocence,  had  never  expected  anything  else,  but  her 
mother  ti-embled  to  think  of  what  might  happen  if  that  simple 
faith  were  rudely  disappointed.  It  was  characteristic  of  the 
devoted  mother  that  she  thought  of  her  child's  heart,  and  not 


22  GREIFENSTEIN. 

of  the  worldly  difference  to  Hilda  between  single  life  at  Sig- 
mundskron  and  wedded  life  at  Greifenstein,  between  starvation 
and  plenty,  extreme  poverty  and  the  state  of  enjoying  all  that 
money  could  give.  It  was  long  before  she  could  comprehend 
what  had  passed  in  Hilda's  mind,  or  the  process  of  reasoning 
by  which  the  young  girl  had  reached  such  a  calm  certainty  of 
anticipation.  When  she  at  last  saw  that  it  was  an  extremely 
simple  matter,  she  realised  how  completely  her  daughter  had 
been  shut  off  from  the  world  since  her  birth.  At  first  she  had 
doubted  the  reality  of  the  girl's  quiet  manner  in  the  circum 
stances,  but  she  soon  discovered  that  Hilda  behaved  during 
Greif's  visits  exactly  as  she  had  always  done,  meeting  him 
gladly,  parting  from  him  regretfully,  speaking  with  him  as 
though  there  were  no  difference  in  their  relations  in  the  present, 
nor  were  to  be  in  the  future,  excepting  that  Greif  would  always 
be  present,  instead  of  only  coming  from  time  to  time.  She 
knew  that  Greif  himself  was  far  from  looking  at  the  matter 
with  such  supreme  calm.  She  saw  the  colour  come  and  go  in 
his  fair  face  in  a  way  that  showed  a  constant  emotion,  and  she 
feared  lest  such  a  very  susceptible  young  man  as  he  appeared  to 
be  should  be  entrapped,  when  away  from  home,  by  the  design 
ing  mother,  of  whom  every  other  mother  sees  the  type  in  the 
background  of  her  thoughts. 

But  Greif  did  not  fall  a  victim  to  any  such  schemes.  If  Hilda 
had  at  all  resembled  most  girls  of  her  age,  he  could  have  com 
pared  her  with  them,  and  the  comparison  would  not  have  been 
to  her  advantage.  She  could  not  have  possessed  their  cheap 
accomplishments,  their  knowledge  of  waltzing,  or  their  intimate 
acquaintance  with  their  neighbours'  affairs.  She  could  not  have 
put  on  their  sentimentality  with  men,  nor  their  cynicism  with 
each  other.  She  could  not  imitate  their  glances  and  she  did 
not  imitate  their  dress.  She  was  a  creature  apart  from  them 
all.  Deeply  imbued  as  he  was  with  all  the  prejudices  of  an 
exclusive  caste,  Greif  could  not  have  looked  upon  Hilda  as  he 
did,  if  she  had  been  a  peasant's  child,  even  though  she  had 
been  herself  in  all  other  respects.  There  was  that  in  her 
position  which  appealed  to  the  romanticism  of  his  nature.  The 
noble  but  unfortunate  maiden,  the  last  of  an  ancient  race, 
dwelling  in  dignified  retirement  in  her  half -ruined  ancestral 
home,  was  vastly  more  interesting  than  any  equally  well-born 
girl  could  have  been,  who  chanced  to  be  rich  enough  to  be 


GREIFENSTEIN.  23 

marched  into  society  as  a  matrimonial  investment  for  young 
men  of  her  station.  But  it  was  precisely  because  Hilda  pos 
sessed  that  one  point  in  common  with  all  such  eligible  young 
ladies  that  Greif  regarded  her  with  a  romantic  devotion  he 
could  never  have  felt  for  a  village  Gretchen.  His  pride  in  her 
nobility  was  indeed  far  less  than  his  love  for  herself,  but  it 
made  for  that  love  a  rampart  against  love's  deadliest  enemy, 
which  is  ridicule.  He  certainly  did  not  tell  himself  so.  He 
would  have  thought  it  an  insult  to  Hilda  to  worship  her  for 
anything  but  her  own  self ;  but  he  was  none  the  less  aware  that 
the  pedestal  upon  which  his  idol  stood  was  strong  enough  to 
withstand  any  assault.  This  being  certain,  it  was  the  very 
impossibility  of  any  further  comparison  that  attracted  him 
most.  She  was  unlike  any  one  whom  he  met,  or  was  ever  likely 
to  meet,  and  his  imagination  invested  her  with  many  exceptional 
attributes,  most  of  which  she  undoubtedly  possessed  in  one 
degree  or  another. 

Each  time  he  returned  and  left  the  noisy  train  and  the  smart 
modern  railway  station  behind  him,  to  plunge  into  the  silent 
forest,  he  felt  more  strongly  that  his  real  sympathies  all  lay 
between  Greifenstein  and  Sigmundskron,  and  that  his  visits  to 
the  world  were  only  disturbing  dreams.  They  must  be  renewed 
from  time  to  time,  at  ever-increasing  intervals,  but  the  real 
peace  of  his  life  awaited  him  in  his  home.  He,  too,  like  Hilda, 
was  a  child  of  the  woods,  and  felt  that  the  trees,  the  foaming 
streams  and  the  changeless  crags  were  all  parts  of  himself,  to 
lose  which  would  be  like  forfeiting  a  limb  of  his  body  or  a 
sense  of  his  intelligence.  The  baroness  need  not  have  been 
afraid  lest  he  should  wander  about  the  world  to  forget  Sig 
mundskron  or  Hilda.  Nature  had  made  him  constant,  and 
circumstances  had  made  him  happy  in  his  own  place. 

And  so  for  years  the  lives  of  all  these  persons  had  run  on, 
until  the  time  was  approaching  when  Greif  and  Hilda  were  to 
be  married,  and  great  changes  were  to  be  made  at  Sigmund 
skron.  Greif  had  come  home  for  the  last  time  but  one,  and 
his  next  return  would  be  final.  During  months  and  years  the 
baroness  and  her  daughter  had  been  slowly  preparing  for  the 
great  event.  The  most  unheard-of  economies  had  been  imag 
ined  and  carried  out  in  the  attempt  to  give  Hilda  a  little  outfit 
for  her  wedding,  just  enough  to  hide  the  desperate  poverty  in 
which  they  had  lived.  Many  a  long  winter's  evening  had  the 


24  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

two  ladies  spun  the  fine  flax  by  the  smouldering  fire  ;  many  a 
long  day  had  Hilda  and  Berbel  spent  at  the  primitive  loom  in 
the  sunny  room  of  the  south  tower ;  through  many  a  summer's 
noon  had  the  long  breadths  of  fine  linen  lain  bleaching  on  the 
clean  grey  stone  of  the  ramparts,  watered  by  the  faithful  ser 
vant's  careful  hand.  Endless  had  been  the  thought  expended 
before  cutting  into  each  piece  of  the  precious  material ;  end 
less  the  labour  lavished  upon  the  fine  embroideries  by  Hilda 
herself,  upon  the  minute  stitching  by  her  brave-hearted  mother. 
But  the  work  had  progressed  well,  and  the  finished  garments 
that  lay  amidst  bundles  of  sweet-smelling  dried  herbs  in  the 
great  old  press  would  have  done  credit  to  the  spinning  and 
weaving  and  handiwork  of  ski  lied  craftsmen.  It  was  fortunate 
that  there  had  been  time  for  it  all,  else  Hilda  would  have  made 
but  a  poor  figure  on  the  great  day. 

As  for  Berbel  she  believed  that  the  forest  itself  had  helped 
them,  when  she  saw  all  that  had  been  accomplished  and  remem 
bered  how  she  had  bought  the  flax  pound  by  pound  at  the 
market.  Though  a  great  share  in  the  joint  success  was  due  to 
her  own  patient  industry,  the  result  seemed  so  fine  as  compared 
with  the  humble  beginnings  that  she  was  much  inclined  to 
thank  the  Heinzelmannchen  and  their  "brownies"  for  the  most 
part  of  it  all.  The  baroness  thanked  Providence,  and  Hilda 
thought  it  was  all  due  to  her  love  for  Greif.  Perhaps  they  were 
all  three  right,  and  possibly  each  shared  in  some  measure  the 
views  of  the  other  two.  At  least  so  far  as  the  gnomes  are  con 
cerned,  most  people  who  have  lived  long  in  forests  and  solitary 
places  have  discovered  that  their  work,  if  they  like  it,  is  per 
formed  with  a  rapidity  and  skill  which  is  marvellous  in  their 
own  eyes,  and  if  you  do  not  call  the  little  gentleman  who  comes 
at  night  and  helps  you  by  the  name  of  Riibezahl,  you  may  call 
him  the  Spirit  of  Peace.  But  as  long  as  you  receive  him  kindly 
and  give  him  his  due  it  matters  very  little  how  you  christen  him, 
for  he  is  an  affectionate  spirit  and  loves  those  who  love  him  for 
himself,  and  does  their  work  for  them,  or  makes  them  think  he 
does,  which,  in  fact,  is  just  the  same. 

Unfortunately  there  are  other  spirits  as  busy  as  he  in  the 
world,  and  he  has  a  way  of  taking  himself  off  at  the  slightest 
alarm,  which  is  often  very  distressing  to  those  who  love  him ; 
and  some  of  those  other  spirits  had  chosen  for  their  abode  the 
Castle  of  Greifenstein  and  for  their  companions  the  persons 


GREIFENSTEIN.  25 

who  dwelt  there.  The  unforeseen  plays  a  very  great  part  in 
our  lives ;  for  if  it  did  not,  we  should  most  of  us  know  exactly 
what  to  do  at  the  right  moment,  and  should  consequently  approach 
perfection  at  an  unnatural  rate.  While  Greif  and  his  father 
were  slowly  ascending  the  hill  towards  their  home,  while  Fran 
von  Greifenstein  was  looking  at  herself  in  her  mirror  and  won 
dering  whether  she  had  not  thrown  away  her  youth  after  all, 
while  Berbel  was  weaving  and  Hilda  embroidering  and  the  old 
baroness  stitching  steadily  along  the  folded  linen  —  while  all 
these  people  were  thus  quietly  and  peacefully  engaged,  an  event 
was  brewing  which  was  destined  to  produce  some  very  remarka 
ble  results.  And  lest  the  justification  of  ordinary  possibility 
should  be  required  by  the  sceptical  hereafter,  I  will  at  once 
state  that  the  greater  part  of  what  follows  is  a  matter  of  his 
tory,  well  known  to  many  living  persons ;  and  that  in  writing 
it  down  I  wish  it  to  be  understood  that  I  am  submitting  to  the 
judgment  of  humanity  a  strange  case  which  actually  occurred 
within  this  century,  rather  than  constructing  from  my  own 
imagination  a  mere  romance  for  the  delectation  of  such  as  will 
take  the  trouble  to  read  it. 


26  GKELFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  OH  !  Is  it  not  too  delightful  to  see  my  dear,  dear  cousins !  " 
screamed  Frau  von  Greifenstein,  throwing  herself  into  the  arms 
of  the  pale  and  quiet  baroness.  "  And  dear  Hilda,  too  !  Ach, 
ist  es  nicht  herzig !  Is  it  not  too  sweet !  " 

She  was  wonderfully  arrayed  in  an  exceedingly  youthful  cos 
tume,  short  enough  to  display  her  thin,  elderly  ankles,  and 
adorned  with  many  flying  ribbands  and  furbelows.  An  impos 
sibly  high  garden  hat  crowned  her  faded  head,  allowing  certain 
rather  unattached-looking  ringlets  of  colourless  blonde  hair  to 
stray  about  her  cheeks.  She  made  one  think  of  a  butterfly,  no 
longer  young,  but  attempting  to  keep  up  the  illusions  of  spring. 
Hilda  and  her  mother  smiled  and  returned  the  salutation  in 
their-  quiet  way. 

"  And  how  have  you  been  at  Sigmundskron  ?  "  continued  the 
sprightly  lady.  "  Do  you  know  ?  It  would  be  my  dream  to 
live  at  Sigmundskron  !  So  romantic,  so  solitary,  so  deliciously 
poetic !  It  is  no  wonder  that  you  look  like  Cinderella  and  the 
fairy  godmother !  I  am  sure  they  both  lived  at  Sigmundskron 
—  and  Greif  will  be  the  Prince  Charmant  with  his  Puss  in 
Boots  —  quite  a  Lohengrin  in  fact  —  dear  me !  I  am  afraid  I 
am  mixing  them  up  —  those  old  German  myths  are  so  con 
fusing,  and  I  am  quite  beside  myself  with  the  joy  of  seeing 
you ! " 

Greifenstein  stood  looking  on,  not  a  muscle  of  his  face  be 
traying  the  slightest  emotion  at  his  wife's  incoherent  speech. 
But  Greif  had  turned  away  and  appeared  to  be  examining  one  of 
the  guns  that  stood  in  a  rack  against  the  wall.  The  meeting- 
had  taken  place  in  the  great  hall,  and  he  was  glad  that  there 
was  something  to  look  at,  for  he  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
most  amused  by  his  mother's  chatter,  or  ashamed  of  the  ridicu 
lous  figure  she  made.  The  impression  was  certainly  a  painful 
one,  and  he  had  not  attained  to  his  father's  grim  indifference, 
for  he  was  not  obliged  to  assist  daily  at  such  scenes.  He  could 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  27 

not  help  comparing  Hilda's  mother  with  his  own,  and  he  in 
wardly  determined  that  when  he  was  married  he  would  take 
up  his  abode  at  Sigmundskron  during  the  greater  part  of  the 
year. 

Hilda  looked  at  her  hostess  and  wondered  whether  all  women 
of  the  world  were  like  Frau  von  Greifenstein.  The  situation 
did  not  last  long,  however,  and  half  an  hour  later  she  found 
herself  sitting  beside  Greif  on  a  block  of  stone  by  the  ruined 
Hun  ger-Th  ur  m . 

"  At  last !  "  exclaimed  Greif,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  "  Is 
there  anything  so  tiresome  as  the  sight  of  affectionate  greet 
ings?" 

"  Greif  —  "  Hilda  paused,  as  though  reconsidering  the  ques 
tion  she  was  about  to  ask. 

"  Yes  —  what  is  it,  sweetheart? " 

"  When  we  are  married,  I  must  love  your  mother,  must  I 
not?" 

"  Oh  yes  — no  doubt,"  answered  the  young  man  with  a  puzzled 
expression.  "  At  least,  I  suppose  you  must  try." 

"  But  I  mean,  if  I  do  not  love  her  as  much  as  my  own  mother, 
will  it  be  very  wrong  ?  " 

"  No,  not  so  much,  of  course." 

"  Do  you  love  her,  Greif  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Greif  cheerfully.    "  Not  as  I  love  you —  " 

"  Or  your  father  ?  " 

"  That  is  different,  a  man  feels  more  sympathy  for  his  father, 
because  he  is  a  man." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  man  —  " 

"  No,  and  you  are  not  my  mother  either.  That  is  again 
different,  you  see." 

"Greif  —  you  do  not  love  your  mother  at  all!"  exclaimed 
Hilda,  turning  her  bright  eyes  to  his.  But  he  looked  away  and 
his  face  grew  grave. 

"  Please  do  not  say  that  to  me,  dear,"  he  answered  quietly. 
"Let  us  talk  of  other  things." 

"  Does  it  pain  you  ?  I  am  sorry.  I  asked  you  because  — 
well,  I  wanted  to  know  if  it  was  exactly  my  duty  —  because  — 
you  see,  I  do  not  think  I  ever  could,  quite,  as  I  ought  to.  You 
are  not  angry  V  " 

"  No,  darling.  I  quite  understand.  It  will  be  enough  if  you 
behave  to  her  as  you  do  now.  Besides,  I  was  going  to  propose 


28  GREIFENSTEIN. 

something,  if  your  mother  will  agree  to  it.  When  we  are  mar 
ried,  we  might  live  at  Sigmundskron." 

"  Oh !     Greif ,  are  you  in  earnest  ?  " 

"Yes.     Why  not?" 

"You  do  not  know  what  a  place  it  is!  "  exclaimed  Hilda  with 
an  uneasy  laugh.  She  had  visions  of  her  husband  discovering 
the  utter  desolation  of  the  old  castle,  but  at  the  same  time  she 
felt  a  sudden  wild  desire  to  see  it  all  restored  and  furnished 
and  kept  up  as  it  should  be. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  there  are  many  reasons  why  I  should 
like  it.  Of  course  it  has  gone  to  ruin,  more  or  less,  and  there 
would  be  something  to  be  done." 

"  Something !  "  cried  Hilda.  "  Everything !  The  great  rooms 
are  perfectly  desolate,  no  furniture,  hardly  any  glass  in  the 
windows.  We  are  so  poor,  Greif !  " 

"  But  I  can  put  panes  into  the  frames  and  get  some  furniture. 
We  need  not  have  so  much  at  first." 

"  But  you  will  have  to  get  everything,  everything.  You  are 
used  to  so  much  here." 

"  I  should  not  need  much  if  I  had  you,"  answered  Greif 
looking  at  her,  as  the  colour  rose  in  his  own  face. 

"  I  do  not  know.     Perhaps  not." 

"I  should  be  happy  with  you  in  a  woodman's  hut,"  said 
Greif  earnestly. 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  Hilda  a  little  doubtfully. 

"  There  is  no  '  perhaps.'     I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

"How  can  you  be  sure?"  asked  the  young  girl  turning  sud 
denly  and  laying  her  hands  upon  his  arm.  "Did  not  your 
father  say  the  same  —  no,  forgive  me!  I  will  not  speak  of  that. 
Oh  Greif !  What  is  love  —  really  —  the  meaning  of  it,  the  true 
spirit  of  it  ?  Why  does  it  sometimes  last  and  sometimes  —  not  ? 
Are  all  men  so  different  one  from  another,  and  women  too?  Is 
it  not  like  religion,  that  when  you  once  believe  you  always 
believe?  T  have  thought  about  it  so  much,  and  I  cannot  under 
stand  it.  And  yet  I  know  T  love  you.  Why  can  I  not  under 
stand  what  I  feel?  Is  it  very  foolish  of  me?  Am  I  less  clever 
than  other  girls  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  Greif  drew  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  cheek. 
Her  colour  never  changed.  With  innocent  simplicity  she  turned 
her  face  and  kissed  him  in  return. 

"  Then  why  is  it?  "  she  asked.     "  And  none  of  my  books  tell 


GEEIFENSTEIF.  29 

me  what  it  means,  though  I  have  read  them  all.  Can  you  not 
tell  me,  you  who  know  so  much  ?  What  is  the  use  of  all  your 
studies  and  your  universities,  if  you  cannot  tell  me  what  it  is 
I  feel,  what  love  is  ?  " 

"  Does  love  need  explanation  ?  What  does  the  meaning  mat 
ter,  when  one  has  it  ?  " 

"Ah,  you  may  say  that  of  anything.  Would  the  air  be 
sweeter,  if  I  knew  what  it  was  ?  Would  the  storm  be  louder, 
or  grander,  or  more  angry,  if  I  knew  what  made  it?  And 
besides,  I  do  know,  for  I  have  learned  about  storms  in  my 
books.  But  it  is  not  the  same  thing.  Love  is  not  part  of 
nature,  I  am  sure.  It  is  a  part  of  the  soul.  But  then,  why 
should  it  sometimes  change?  The  soul  does  not  change,  for 
it  is  eternal." 

"But  true  love  does  not  change  either  —  " 

"  And  yet  people  seem  to  think  it  is  true,  until  it  changes," 
argued  Hilda.  "  There  must  be  something  by  which  one  can 
tell  whether  it  is  true  or  not." 

"  One  must  not  be  too  logical  with  love,  any  more  than  with 
religion." 

"  Religion  ?  Why,  that  is  the  most  logical  thing  we  know 
anything  about ! " 

"  And  yet  people  have  differed  very  much  in  their  opinions  of 
it,"  said  Greif  with  a  smile. 

"  Is  it  not  logical  that  good  people  should  go  to  heaven  and 
bad  people  to  hell?  "  inquired  Hilda  calmly.  "Religion  would 
be  illogical  if  it  taught  that  sinners  should  all  be  saved  and 
saints  burnt  in  everlasting  fire.  How  can  you  say  it  is  not 
logical  ?  " 

"  It  certainly  cannot  be  said  if  one  takes  your  view,"  Greif 
answered,  laughing.  "  But  then,  if  you  look  at  love  in  the  same 
way,  you  get  the  same  result.  People  who  love  each  other  are 
happy  and  people  who  quarrel  are  not." 

"  Yes ;  but  then,  love  does  not  only  consist  in  not  quarrelling." 

"  Nor  religion  in  not  being  a  sinner  —  but  I  am  not  sure  —  " 
Greif  interrupted  himself.  "  Perhaps  that  is  just  what  religion 
means." 

"  Then  why  cannot  love  mean  something  quite  as  simple  ?  " 

"  It  seems  simple  enough  to  me.  So  long  as  we  are  everything 
to  each  other  we  shall  understand  it  quite  enough." 

"  Just  so  long  —  " 


30  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  And  that  means  for  ever." 

"How  do  you  know,  unless  you  have  some  knowledge  by 
which  you  can  tell  whether  your  love  is  true  or  not  ?  " 

"  Why  not  yours,  sweetheart  ?  " 

"Oh!  I  know  myself  well  enough.  I  shall  never  change. 
But  you  —  you  might  — 

"  Do  you  not  believe  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  it  always  comes  to  that  in  the  end, 
whenever  we  talk  about  it,  and  I  am  never  any  nearer  to  know 
ing  what  love  is,  after  all !  " 

The  young  girl  rested  her  chin  upon  her  hand  and  looked 
wistfully  through  the  trees,  as  though  she  wished  and  half  ex 
pected  that  some  wise  fairy  would  come  flitting  through  the 
shadow  and  the  patches  of  sunshine  to  tell  her  the  meaning  of 
her  love,  of  her  life,  of  all  she  felt,  of  all  she  did  not  feel.  She 
read  in  books  that  maidens  blushed  when  the  man  they  loved 
spoke  to  them,  that  their  hearts  beat  fast  and  that  their  hands 
grew  cold  —  simple  expressions  out  of  simple  and  almost  child 
ish  tales.  But  none  of  these  things  happened  to  her.  Why 
should  they?  Had  she  not  expected  to  meet  Greif  that  day? 
Why  should  she  feel  surprise,  or  fear,  or  whatever  it  was,  that 
made  the  hearts  of  maidens  in  fiction  behave  so  oddly  ?  He  was 
very  handsome,  as  he  sat  there  glancing  sideways  at  her,  and 
she  could  see  hirn  distinctly,  though  she  seemed  to  be  looking 
at  the  trees.  But  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  turn  red 
and  pale,  and  tremble  as  though  she  had  done  something  very 
wrong.  It  was  all  quite  right,  and  quite  sanctioned.  She  had 
nothing  to  say  to  Greif,  nothing  to  think  about  him,  that  her 
mother  might  not  have  heard  or  known. 

"  I  am  no  nearer  to  knowing,"  she  repeated  after  a  long  inter 
val  of  silence. 

"  And  I  am  no  nearer  to  the  wish  to  know,"  answered  Greif, 
clasping  his  brown  hands  over  his  knee  and  gazing  at  her  from 
under  the  brim  of  his  straw  hat.  "You  are  a  strange  girl, 
Hilda,"  he  added  presently,  and  something  in  his  face  showed 
that  her  singularity  pleased  him  and  satisfied  his  pride. 

"  Am  I?  Then  why  do  you  like  me ?  Or  do  you  like  me  be 
cause  I  am  strange?" 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  poet,"  observed  Greif  instead  of  answering 
her.  "  I  would  write  such  things  about  you  as  have  never  been 
written  about  any  woman.  However,  I  suppose  you  would  never 
read  my  verses." 


GREIFENSTEIN.  31 

"  Oh  yes !  "  laughed  Hilda.  "  Especially  if  mamma  told  me 
that  they  belonged  to  the  '  best  German  epoch.'  But  I  should 
not  like  them  —  " 

"  You  do  not  like  poetry  in  general,  I  believe." 

"  It  always  seems  to  me  a  very  unnatural  way  of  expressing 
oneself,"  answered  Hilda  thoughtfully.  "  Why  should  a  man 
go  out  of  his  way  to  put  what  he  wants  to  say  into  a  certain 
shape?  What  necessity  is  there  for  putting  in  a  word  more 
than  is  needed,  or  for  pinching  oneself  so  as  to  cut  one  out  that 
would  be  useful  for  the  sense,  just  because  by  doing  that  you 
can  make  everything  fit  a  certain  mould  and  sound  mechanical 
—  ta  ra  tatatata  ta  turn  turn  !  '  Ich  weiss  nicht  was  soil  es 
bedeuten,'  and  all  the  rest  of  it. "  There  is  something  wrong. 
That  poem  is  very  sad  and  romantic  in  idea,  and  yet  you  always 
sing  it  when  you  are  particularly  happy." 

"Most  people  do,"  said  Greif,  smiling  at  the  truth  of  the 
observation. 

"Then  what  is  there  in  poetry?  Does  'I  love  you'  sound 
sweeter  if  it  is  followed  by  a  mechanical  '  ta  ra  ta  ra  ta  turn '  of 
words  quite  unnecessary  to  the  thought,  and  which  you  only 
hear  because  they  jingle  after  you,  as  your  spurs  do,  when  you 
have  been  riding  and  are  on  foot,  at  every  step  you  take  ?  " 

"  Schlagend ! "  laughed  Greif.  "  An  annihilating  argument ! 
I  will  never  think  of  writing  verses  any  more,  I  promise  you." 

"  No.  Don't,"  answered  Hilda  emphatically.  "  Unless  you 
feel  that  you  cannot  love  me  in  plain  language  —  in  prose,"  she 
added,  with  a  glance  of  her  sparkling  eyes. 

"Verse  would  be  better  than  nothing,  then?" 

"  Than  nothing  —  anything  would  be  better  than  that." 

Greif  fell  to  wondering  whether  her  serious  tone  meant  all 
that  he  understood  by  it,  and  he  asked  himself  whether  her 
calm,  passionless  affection  were  really  what  he  in  his  heart 
called  love.  She  felt  no  emotion,  like  his  own.  She  could  pro 
nounce  the  words  "  I  love  "  again  and  again  without  a  tremor 
of  the  voice  or  a  change  in  the  even  shading  of  her  radiant 
colour.  It  was  possible  that  she  only  thought  of  him  as  a 
brother,  as  a  part  of  the  world  she  lived  in,  as  something  dearer 
than  her  mother  because  nearer  to  her  own  age.  It  was  possible 
that  if  she  had  been  in  the  world  she  might  have  seen  some 
man  whose  mere  presence  could  make  her  feel  all  she  had  never 
felt.  It  was  conceivable  that  she  should  have  fallen  into  this 


32  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

sisterly  sort  of  affection  in  the  absence  of  any  person  who  might 
have  awakened  her  real  sensibilities.  Greifs  masculine  nature 
was  not  satisfied,  for  it  craved  a  more  active  response,  as  a  lad 
watches  for  the  widening  ripples  when  he  has  dropped  a  pebble 
into  a  placid  pool.  An  irresistible  desire  to  know  the  truth 
overcame  Greif. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  yourself,  sweetheart  (    he  asked  softly. 

"Of  what?" 

"  That  you  really  love  me.     Do  you  know  - 

Before  he  could  finish  the  question  Hilda  was  looking  into 
his  face,  with  an  expression  he  had  never  seen  before.  He 
stopped  short,  surprised  at  the  effect  of  his  own  words.  Hilda 
was  very  angry,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  whole  life. 
The  brightness  of  her  eyes  almost  startled  him,  and  there  was 
a  slight  contraction  of  the  brows  that  gave  her  features  a  look 
of  amazing  power.  Greif  even  fancied  that,  for  once,  her  cheek 
was  a  shade  paler  than  usual. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  you  say,"  she  answered  very  slowly. 

"  Darling  —  you  have  misunderstood  me ! "  exclaimed  Greif  in 
distress.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  say  — 

"  You  asked  me  if  I  were  sure  that  I  really  loved  you,"  said 
Hilda  very  gravely.  "  You  must  be  mad,  but  those  were  your 
words." 

"Hear  me,  sweetheart !  I  only  asked  because  —  you  see,  you 
are  so  different  from  other  women  !  How  can  I  explain  !  " 

"  So  you  have  had  experience  of  others  !  "  She  spoke  coldly 
and  her  voice  had  an  incisive  ring  in  it  that  wounded  him  as 
a  knife.  He  was  too  inexperienced  to  know  what  to  do,  and 
he  instinctively  assumed  that  look  of  injured  superiority  which 
it  is  the  peculiar  privilege  of  women  to  wear  in  such  cases,  and 
which,  in  a  man,  exasperates  them  beyond  measure. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Greif,  "  you  have  quite  misunderstood  me. 
I  will  explain  the  situation." 

"  It  is  necessary,"  answered  Hilda,  looking  at  the  trees. 

"  In  the  first  place,  you  must  remember  what  we  were  saying, 
or  rather  what  you  were  saying  a  little  while  ago.  You  wanted 
an  explanation  of  the  nature  of  love.  Now  that  made  me  think 
that  you  had  never  felt  what  I  feel  — •  " 

"  I  have  not  had  your  experience,"  observed  Hilda. 

"  But  I  have  not  had  any  experience  either  !  "  exclaimed  Greif, 
suddenly  breaking  down  in  his  dissertation. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  33 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  that  I  am  so  different  from  other 
women  ?  "  was  the  inexorable  retort. 

"  I  have  seen  other  women,  and  talked  with  them — " 

"  About  love  ?  " 

"  No  —  about  the  weather,"  answered  Greif,  annoyed  at  her 
persistence. 

"  And  were  their  views  about  the  weather  so  very  different 
from  mine  ?  "  inquired  the  young  girl,  pushing  him  to  the  end 
of  the  situation.  • 

"  Perhaps." 

"  You  do  not  seem  sure.  I  wish  you  would  explain  yourself, 
as  you  promised  to  do !  " 

"  Then  you  must  not  interrupt  me  at  every  word." 

"  Was  I  interrupting?  I  thought  my  questions  might  help 
you.  Go  on." 

"I  only  mean  to  say  that  I  never  heard  of  a  woman  who 
wanted  an  explanation  of  her  feelings  when  she  was  in  love. 
And  then  I  wondered  whether  your  love  was  like  mine,  and  as 
I  am  very  sure,  I  supposed  that  if  you  felt  differently  you  could 
not  be  so  sure  as  I.  That  is  all.  Why  are  you  so  angry?" 

"  You  know  very  well  why  I  am  angry.  That  is  only  an 
excuse." 

"If  you  are  going  to  argue  in  that  way —  "  Greif  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  said  nothing  more.  Hilda  seemed  to  be  col 
lecting  her  thoughts. 

"  You  evidently  doubt  me,"  she  said  at  last,  speaking  quietly. 
"It  is  the  first  time.  You  have  tried  to  defend  your  question, 
and  you  have  not  succeeded.  All  that  you  can  tell  me  is  that  I 
am  different  from  other  women  with  whom  you  have  talked. 
I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do,  though  I  have  never  seen  them.  It 
is  quite  possible  that  the  difference  may  come  from  my  educa 
tion,  or  want  of  education.  In  that  case,  if  you  are  going  to  be 
ashamed  of  me,  when  I  am  your  wife,  because  I  know  less  than 
the  girls  you  have  seen  in  towns  and  such  places  —  why  then,  go 
away  and  marry  one  of  them.  She  will  feel  as  you  expect  her 
to  feel,  and  you  will  be  satisfied." 

"  Hilda ! " 

"  I  mean  what  I  say.  But  there  may  be  something  else.  The 
difference  may  be  there  because  I  have  not  learned  the  same 
outward  manners  as  the  city  people,  because  I  do  not  laugh 
when  they  would  laugh,  cry  when  they  would  cry,  act  as  they 


34  GREIFENSTEIN. 

would  act.  I  do  not  know  half  the  things  they  like,  or  do,  or 
say,  but  from  what  I  have  read  I  fancy  that  they  are  not  at  all 
simple,  nor  straightforward  in  their  likings  and  dislikes,  nor  in 
their  speech  either.  I  do  not  even  know  whether  I  look  like 
them,  nor  whether  if  I  went  to  their  places  they  would  not  take 
me  for  some  strange  wild  animal.  I  make  my  own  clothes.  I 
have  heard  that  they  spend  for  one  bit  of  dress  as  much  as  my 
mother  and  I  spend  in  a  whole  year  upon  everything.  I  sup 
pose  they  do,  for  your  mother  must  wear  what  people  wear  in 
towns,  and  her  things  must  cost  a  great  deal.  I  think  I  should 
feel  uncomfortable  in  them,  but  if  we  are  married  I  will  wear 
what  you  please  — 

"  How  can  you  say  such  things  —  " 

"  I  am  only  going  over  the  points  in  which  I  am  different 
from  other  women.  That  is  one  of  them.  Then  I  believe  they 
learn  all  sorts  of  tricks — they  can  play  on  the  piano  —  I  have 
never  seen  one,  for  it  is  the  only  thing  you  have  not  got  at 
Greifenstein,  —  they  draw  and  paint,  they  talk  in  more  than 
one  language,  whereas  I  only  know  what  little  French  my 
mother  could  teach  me,  they  sing  from  written  music  —  for 
that  matter,  I  can  sing  without,  which  I  suppose  ought  to  be 
harder.  But  they  can  do  all  those  little  things,  which  I  suppose 
amuse  you,  and  of  which  I  cannot  do  one.  Perhaps  those  ac 
complishments,  or  tricks,  change  them  so  that  they  feel  more 
than  I  do.  But  I  do  not  believe  it.  If  I  had  the  chance  of 
learning  them  I  would  do  it,  to  please  you.  It  would  not  make 
me  love  you  any  more.  I  believe  that  we,  who  think  of  few 
people  because  we  know  few,  think  of  them  more  and  more 
lovingly.  But  if  I  took  trouble  to  please  you,  it  would  show  you 
how  much  I  love  you.  Perhaps  —  perhaps  that  is  what  you 'really 
want,  that  I  should  say  more,  act  more,  make  a  greater  show. 
Is  that  it,  after  all  ?  " 

Her  mood  had  changed  while  she  was  speaking,  perhaps  by 
the  enumeration  of  her  points  of  inferiority.  She  turned  her 
bright  eyes  towards  Greif  with  a  look  of  curiosity,  as  though 
wondering  whether  she  had  hit  the  mark,  as  indeed  she  had,  by 
a  pure  accident. 

"It  cannot  be  that  —  I  cannot  be  such  a  fool!"  Greif  ex 
claimed  with  all  the  resentment  of  a  man  who  has  been  found 
out  in  his  selfishness. 

"  I  should  not  think  any  the  worse  of  you,"  said  Hilda.     "  It 


GREIFENSTEEST.  35 

is  I  who  have  been  foolish  not  to  guess  it  before.  How  should 
you  understand  that  I  love  you,  merely  because  I  say  good 
morning  and  kiss  you,  and  good  evening  and  kiss  you,  and 
talk  about  the  weather  and  your  mother's  ribbands !  There 
must  be  something  more.  And  yet  I  feel  that  if  you  married 
some  one  else,  I  should  be  very  unhappy  and  should  perhaps 
die.  Why  not?  There  would  not  be  anything  to  live  for. 
Why  can  I  not  find  some  way  of  letting  you  know  how  I  love 
you?  There  must  be  ways  of  showing  it  —  but  I  have  thought 
of  everything  I  can  do  for  you,  and  it  is  so  little,  for  you  have 
everything.  Only —  Greif,  you  must  not  doubt  that  I  love  you 
because  I  have  no  way  of  showing  it  —  or  if  you  do  —  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Hilda  —  I  never  doubted  —  " 

"  Oh,  but  you  did,  you  did,"  answered  Hilda  with  great 
emphasis,  and  in  a  tone  which  showed  how  deeply  the  words 
had  wounded  her.  "  It  is  natural,  I  suppose,  and  then,  is  it 
not  better  that  I  should  know  it  ?  It  is  of  no  use  to  hide  such 
things.  I  should  have  felt  it,  if  you  had  not  told  me." 

It  was  not  in  Hilda's  nature  to  shed  tears  easily,  for  she  had 
been  exposed  to  so  few  emotions  in  her  life  that  she  had  never 
acquired  the  habit  of  weeping.  But  there  was  something  in  her 
expression  that  moved  Greif  more  than  a  fit  of  sobbing  could 
have  done.  There  was  an  evident  strength  in  her  resentment, 
even  though  it  showed  itself  in  temperate  words,  which  indi 
cated  a  greater  solidity  of  character  than  the  young  man  had 
given  her  credit  for.  He  had  not  realised  that  a  love  developed 
by  natural  and  slow  degrees,  without  a  shadow  of  opposition, 
could  be  deeper  and  more  enduring  than  the  spasmodic  passion 
that  springs  up  amidst  the  unstable  surroundings  of  the  world, 
ill  nourished  by  an  uncertain  alternation  of  hope  and  fear,  and 
prone  to  consume  itself  in  the  heat  of  its  own  expression.  The 
one  is  about  as  different  from  the  other  as  the  slowly  moving 
glacier  of  the  Alps  is  from  the  gaudily  decorated  and  artificially 
frozen  concoction  of  the  ice-cream  vendor. 

"I  am  very  sorry  I  said  it,"  returned  Greif  penitently.  He 
took  her  passive  hand  in  his,  hoping  to  make  the  peace  as 
quickly  as  he  had  broken  it,  but  she  did  not  return  the  pressure 
of  his  fingers. 

"  So  am  I,"  she  answered  thoughtfully.  "  I  was  angry  at 
first.  I  do  not  think  I  am  angry  any  more,  but  I  cannot  forget 
it,  because,  in  some  way  or  other,  it  must  be  my  fault.  Forgive 


36  GREIFENSTEIN. 

you  ?  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  dear.  Why  should  one  not 
speak  out  what  is  in  one's  heart  ?  It  would  be  a  sort  of  lie,  if 
one  did  not.  I  would  tell  you  at  once,  if  I  thought  you  did  not 
love  me  —  " 

Greif  smiled. 

"Ah  Hilda!  Since  we  have  been  sitting  here,  you  have  told 
me  you  thought  I  might  change  —  do  you  not  remember  ?  Was 
what  I  said  so  much  worse  than  that  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  was,"  she  answered.     "  Ever  so  much  worse." 

Thereupon  Greif  meditated  for  some  moments  upon  the 
nature  of  woman,  and  to  tell  the  truth  he  was  not  so  far 
advanced  as  to  have  no  need  for  such  study.  Finding  no  suita 
ble  answer  to  what  she  had  said,  he  could  think  of  nothing 
better  than  to  press  her  hand  gently  and  stroke  her  long  straight 
fingers.  Presently,  the  pressure  was  returned  and  Greif  con 
gratulated  himself,  with  some  reason,  upon  having  discovered 
the  only  plausible  argument  within  his  reach.  But  his  wisdom 
did  not  go  so  far  as  to  keep  him  silent. 

"  I  think  I  understand  you  better  than  I  did,"  he  said. 

Hilda  did  not  withdraw  her  hand,  but  it  became  again  quite 
passive  in  his,  and  she  once  more  seemed  deeply  interested  in 
the  trees. 

"  Do  you?  "  she  asked  indifferently  after  a  pause. 

"  Perhaps  T  should  rather  say  myself,"  said  Greif,  finding  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake.  "  And  that  is  quite  another  matter." 

"Yes  —  it  is.  Which  do  you  mean?"  Hilda  laughed  a 
little. 

"Whichever  you  like  best,"  answered  Greif.  who  was  at  his 
wit's  end. 

"Whichever  I  like?"  she  looked  at  him  long,  and  then  her 
face  softened  wonderfully.  "Let  it  be  neither,  dear,"  she  said. 
"  Let  us  not  try  to  understand,  but  only  love,  love,  love  for  ever ! 
Love  is  so  much  better  than  any  discussion  about  it,  so  much 
sweeter  than  anything  that  you  or  I  can  say  in  its  favour,  so 
much  more  real  and  lasting  than  the  meanings  of  words.  If 
you  could  describe  it,  it  would  be  like  anything  else,  and  if  you 
tried,  and  could  not,  you  might  think  there  was  no  such  thing 
at  all,  and  that  would  not  be  true." 

"You  talk  better  than  I  do,  sweetheart.  Where  did  you 
learn  to  say  such  things?" 

"  I  never  learned,  but  I  think  sometimes  that  the  heart  talks 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  37 

better  than  the  head,  because  the  heart  feels  what  it  is  talking 
about,  and  the  head  only  thinks  it  feels.  Do  you  see?  You 
have  learnt  so  much,  that  your  head  will  not  let  your  heart 
speak  in  plain  German." 

Greif  smiled  at  the  phrase,  which  indeed  contained  a  vast 
amount  of  truth. 

"If  you  could  make  the  professors  of  philosophy  understand 
that,"  he  answered,  "you  would  simplify  my  education  very 
much." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  philosophy  is,  dear,  but  if  there  were  a 
professor  here,  I  would  try  and  persuade  him,  if  it  would  do 
you  any  good.  I  know  I  am  right." 

"  Of  course  you  are.  You  always  will  be  —  you  represent 
what  Plato  hankered  after  and  never  found." 

"What  was  that?" 

"  Oh  !  nothing  —  only  perfection,"  laughed  Greif. 

"Nonsense!  If  I  am  perfection,  what  must  you  be?  Plato 
himself?  I  do  not  know  much  about  him,  but  I  have  read  that 
he  was  a  good  man.  Perhaps  you  are  like  him." 

"  The  resemblance  cannot  be  very  striking,  for  no  one  has 
noticed  it,  not  even  the  professors  themselves,  who  ought  to 
know." 

"Must  you  go  back  to  Schwarzburg?"  Hilda  asked,  suddenly 
growing  serious. 

"Yes,  but  it  is  the  last  time.  It  will  not  seem  long  —  there 
is  so  much  to  be  done." 

"No.  It  will  not  seem  long,"  answered  Hilda,  thinking  of 
all  that  she  and  her  mother  must  do  before  the  wedding. 
"  But  the  long  times  are  not  always  the  sad  times,"  she  added 
sorrowfully. 

"  I  shall  be  here  for  Christmas,"  said  Greif.  "  And  in  the 
new  year  we  will  be  married,  and  then  —  we  must  think  of 
what  we  will  do." 

"  We  will  live  at  Sigmundskron,  as  you  said,  shall  we  not?" 

"  Yes.     But  before  that  we  will  go  away  for  a  while." 

"Away?    Why?" 

"  People  always  do  when  they  are  married.  We  will  go  to 
Italy,  if  you  like,  or  anywhere  else." 

"  But  why  must  we  go  away?  "  asked  Hilda  anxiously.  "  Do 
you  think  we  shall  not  be  as  happy  here  as  anywhere  else?  Oh, 
I  could  not  live  out  of  the  dear  forest !  " 


38  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  But,  sweetheart,  you  have  never  seen  a  town,  nor  anything 
of  the  world.  Would  you  not  care  to  know  what  it  is  all  like 
beyond  the  trees  ?  " 

"By  and  by  —  yes,  I  would  like  to  see  it  all.  But  I  would 
like  poor  old  Sigmundskron  to  see  how  happy  we  shall  be.  I 
think  the  grey  towers  will  almost  seem  to  laugh  on  that  day, 
and  the  big  firs  — they  saw  my  great-grandfather's  wedding, 
Greif !  I  would  rather  stay  in  the  old  place,  for  a  little  while. 
And,  after  all,  you  have  travelled  so  much,  that  you  can  tell  rue 
about  Italy  by  the  fire  in  the  long  evenings,  and  I  shall  enjoy 
it  quite  as  much  because  you  will  be  always  with  me." 

"Thank  you,  darling,"  said  Greif  tenderly,  as  he  drew  her 
cheek  to  his,  and  he  said  no  more  about  the  wedding  trip  on 
that  afternoon. 

The  shadows  were  beginning  to  lengthen  and  the  cool  breeze 
was  beginning  to  float  down  the  valley,  towards  the  heated 
plain  far  away,  when  Hilda  and  Greif  rose  from  their  seat 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Hunger-Thurm,  and  strolled  slowly 
along  the  broad  road  that  led  into  the  forest  beyond.  What 
ever  feeling  of  unpleasantness  had  been  roused  by  Greif's 
unlucky  speech,  had  entirely  disappeared,  but  the  discussion 
had  left  its  impress  far  in  the  depths  of  Hilda's  heart.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  her  in  her  whole  life  before  that  any 
one,  and  especially  Greif,  could  doubt  the  reality  or  the  strength 
of  her  love.  What  had  now  passed  between  them  had  left  her 
with  a  new  aspiration  of  which  she  had  not  hitherto  been  con 
scious.  She  felt  that  hereafter  she  must  find  some  means  of 
making  Greif  understand  her.  When  he  had  said  that  he 
understood  her  better,  she  had  very  nearly  been  offended  again, 
for  she  saw  how  very  far  he  was  from  knowing  what  was  in 
her  heart.  She  longed,  as  many  have  longed  before,  for  some 
opportunity  of  sacrifice,  of  heroic  devotion,  which  might  show 
him  in  one  moment  the  whole  depth  and  breadth  and  loyalty 
of  her  love. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  39 


CHAPTEE   IV. 

WHILE  Hilda  and  Greif  were  talking  together  the  three  older 
members  of  the  family  party  had  established  themselves  in  a 
shady  arbour  of  the  garden,  close  to  the  low  parapet,  whence 
one  could  look  down  the  sheer  precipice  to  the  leaping  stream 
and  watch  the  dark  swallows  shooting  through  the  shadow 
and  the  sunshine,  or  the  yellow  butterflies  and  moths  fluttering 
from  one  resting-place  to  another,  drawn  irresistibly  to  the 
gleaming  water,  out  of  which  their  wet  wings  would  never  bear 
them  up  again  to  the  flower-garden  of  the  castle  above. 

Frau  von  Greifenstein  had  seated  herself  in  a  straw  chair  with 
her  parasol,  her  fan  and  her  lap-dog,  a  little  toy  terrier  which 
was  always  suffering  from  some  new  and  unheard-of  nervous 
complaint,  and  on  which  the  sensitive  lady  lavished  all  the  care 
she  could  spare  from  herself.  The  miserable  little  creature 
shivered  all  summer,  and  lay  during  most  of  the  winter  half 
paralysed  with  cold  in  a  wadded  basket  before  the  fire.  It 
snapped  with  pettish  impotence  at  every  one  who  approached 
it,  including  its  mistress,  and  the  house  was  frequently  con 
vulsed  because  there  was  too  much  salt  in  its  soup  or  too  little 
sugar  in  its  tea.  Greif enstein's  pointers  generally  regarded  it 
with  silent  scorn,  but  occasionally,  when  it  was  being  petted 
with  more  than  usual  fondness,  they  would  sit  up  before  it, 
thrust  out  their  long  tongues  and  shake  their  intelligent  heads, 
with  a  grin  that  reached  to  their  ears,  and  which  was  not  unlike 
the  derisively  laughing  grimace  of  a  street-boy.  Greifenstein 
never  took  any  notice  of  the  little  animal,  but  on  the  other 
hand  he  was  exceedingly  careful  not  to  disturb  it.  He  probably 
considered  it  as  a  sort  of  familiar  spirit  attached  to  his  wife's 
being.  Had  he  been  an  ancient  Egyptian  instead  of  a  modern 
German,  he  would  doubtless  have  performed  a  weekly  sacrifice 
to  it,  with  the  same  stiff  but  ready  outward  courtesy,  and 
prompted  by  the  same  inward  adherence  to  the  principles  of 
household  peace,  which  so  pre-eminently  characterised  him. 


40  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

The  Lady  of  Sigmundskron  had  neither  parasol,  nor  lap-dog, 
nor  fan.  Her  plain  grey  dress,  made  almost  as  simply  as  a 
nun's,  contrasted  oddly  with  the  profusion  of  expensive  bad 
taste  displayed  in  her  hostess's  attire,  as  her  serious  white  face 
and  quiet  noble  eyes  were  strangely  unlike  Frau  von  Greifen- 
stein's  simpering,  nervous  countenance.  The  latter  lady  would 
certainly  have  been  taken  at  first  sight  for  the  younger  of  the 
two,  though  she  was  in  reality  considerably  older,  but  a  closer 
examination  showed  an  infinite  number  of  minute  lines,  about 
the  eyes,  about  the  mouth,  and  even  on  her  cheeks,  not  to 
mention  that  tell-tale  wrinkle,  the  sign  manual  of  advancing 
years,  which  begins  just  in  front  of  the  lobe  of  the  ear  and  cuts 
its  way  downwards  and  backwards,  round  the  angle  of  the  jaw. 
There  was  a  disquieting  air  of  improbability,  too,  about  some 
of  the  colouring  in  her  face,  though  it  was  far  from  apparent 
that  she  was  painted.  Her  hair,  at  all  events,  was  her  own  and 
was  not  dyed.  And  yet,  though  she  possessed  an  abundance  of 
it,  such  as  many  a  girl  might  have  envied,  it  remained  utterly 
uninteresting  and  commonplace,  for  its  faded  straw-like  colour 
was  not  attractive  to  the  eye,  and  it  grew  so  awkwardly  and  so 
straight  as  to  put  its  possessor  to  much  trouble  in  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  youthful  ringlets  she  thought  so  becoming  to  her 
style.  These,  however,  she  never  relinquished  under  any  cir 
cumstances  whatever.  Nevertheless,  at  a  certain  distance  and 
in  a  favourable  light,  the  whole  effect  was  youngish,  though  one 
could  not  call  it  youthful,  the  more  so  as  Frau  von  Sigmundskron 
who  sat  beside  her  was,  at  little  over  forty,  usually  taken  for  an 
old  lady. 

For  some  moments  after  they  had  all  sat  down,  no  one  spoke. 
Then  Greifenstein  suddenly  straightened  himself,  as  though  an 
idea  had  occurred  to  him,  and  bending  stiffly  forward  in  his 
seat,  addressed  his  cousin. 

"  It  gives  us  the  greatest  pleasure  to  see  you  once  more  in  our 
circle,"  he  said  emphatically. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  looked  up  from  her  fine  needlework, 
and  gracefully  inclined  her  head. 

"  You  are  very  kind,",  she  answered.  "  You  know  how  happy 
we  are  to  be  with  you." 

"Ah,  it  is  too,  too  delightful !  "  cried  Frau  von  Greifenstein, 
with  sudden  enthusiasm,  covering  the  toy  terrier  with  her  hand 
at  the  same  time,  as  though  anticipating  some  nervous  move- 


GREIFENSTEIN.  41 

ment  on  his  part  at  the  sound  of  her  voice.  The  dog  stirred 
uneasily  and  uttered  a  feeble  little  growl,  turned  round  on  her 
lap,  bit  his  tail,  and  then  settled  himself  to  rest  again.  The  lady 
watched  all  these  movements  with  anxious  interest,  smoothing 
the  folds  of  her  dress  at  the  spot  on  which  the  beast  was  about 
to  lay  his  head. 

"  Ah  !  my  beloved,  my  treasure !  "  she  murmured  in  a  strident 
whisper.  "Did  I  wake  you!  Dear,  dear  Pretzel!  Do  go  to 
sleep !  I  call  him  Pretzel,"  she  added,  looking  up  with  a  wild 
smile,  "because  when  he  is  curled  up,  with  his  little  legs  together, 
on  his  side,  he  is  just  the  shape  of  those  little  twisted  rolls  my 
husband  likes  with  his  beer.  It  is  a  vulgar  name,  yes  —  but 
this  is  a  vulgar  age,  dear  cousin,  you  know,  and  we  must  not  be 
behind  our  times !  " 

"  Is  it  ?  "  asked  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  without  taking  her 
eyes  from  her  work. 

"  Oh,  dreadfully  so !  Is  it  not,  Hugo  ?  I  am  sure  I  have  heard 
you  say  so." 

"  Without  doubt,  the  times  are  changed,"  replied  Greifenstein. 
"  But  I  suppose  that  what  is  modern  will  always  seem  vulgar  to 
old-fashioned  people." 

"  Ah,  you  do  not  call  me  old-fashioned,  dear  husband  ?  Do 
you  ?  Really,  if  I  am  old-fashioned,  the  times  must  have 
advanced  very,  very  quickly !  Eh  ?  Dearest  cousin,  he  calls 
us  old-fashioned !  You  and  me  !  Aber  nein !  How  is  it 
possible ! " 

A  fit  of  spasmodic,  unnatural  laughter  shook  her  from  the  tip 
of  her  lace  parasol  to  the  toes  of  her  small  slippers,  causing  such 
a  convulsion  in  the  lap-dog's  mind  that  he  sat  up  on  her  knees 
and  joined  his  cries  with  hers,  until  he  had  succeeded  in  attract 
ing  her  attention,  when  he  was  instantly  caressed  and  kissed  and 
petted,  with  expressions  of  the  greatest  anxiety  for  his  comfort. 
In  about  thirty  seconds,  however,  the  noises  suddenly  ceased, 
Pretzel  went  to  sleep  again  and  his  mistress  sat  looking  at  the 
swallows  and  the  flitting  butterflies,  her  weary  features  express 
ing  nothing  that  could  be  connected  with  mirth,  any  more  than 
if  she  had  not  laughed  for  years.'  The  repose  could  not  last 
long,  but  Greifenstein  felt  that  it  was  refreshing.  In  five  and 
twenty  years  of  married  life,  by  dint  of  never  exhibiting  any 
annoyance  at  his  wife's  way  of  expressing  herself,  he  had  grown 
hardened  against  the  disturbing  effect  of  her  smile  and  voice 


42  GREIFENSTEIN. 

until  he  was  really  very  little  affected  by  either.  So  far  as  her 
conduct  was  concerned,  he  had  never  had  anything  to  complain  of, 
and  since  he  had  chosen  her  of  his  own  free  will,  he  considered 
that  one  part  of  his  duty  consisted  in  suffering  her  eccentricities 
with  patience  and  calm.  The  idea  that  a  German  who  called 
himself  a  gentleman  should  not  do  his  duty  never  entered  his 
mind.  On  the  other  hand,  his  imperturbable  manner  some 
times  irritated  his  wife,  and  in  justice  to  her  it  must  be 
allowed  that  his  conversation  in  her  presence  was  often  very 
constrained. 

"  The  next  time  you  come  to  Greifenstein,"  he  said,  leaning 
forward  again  and  speaking  to  his  cousin,  "  it  will  be  on  the 
occasion  of  a  very  happy  event." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  with  her  gentle 
smile,  "  I  hope  so." 

"  I  think  that  if  you  approve,  and  if  your  daughter  has  no 
objections  — ' 

"  Objections  !  "  cried  Frau  von  Greifenstein,  suddenly  waking 
from  her  reverie  and  turning  her  face  to  her  companion's  with 
an  engaging  simper.  "As  if  dear,  sweet,  beautiful  Hilda  could 
have  any  objections  to  marrying  our  Greif  !  Objections  !  Ah 
no,  dear  cousin,  that  youthful  heart  is  already  on  fire !  " 

The  words  were  uttered  with  such  an  affectation  of  softness 
that  Pretzel  did  not  move,  as  his  mistress  anxiously  looked  to 
see  if  he  were  awake. when  she  had  done  speaking. 

"  No,"  replied  the  other  lady  calmly.  "  She  has  none.  But 
I  do  not  think  that  was  what  my  cousin  Greifenstein  meant." 

"  I  meant  that  the  marriage  might  take  place  early  in  the  new 
year,  if  neither  you  nor  your  daughter  had  any  objections,"  said 
Greifenstein. 

"  But  they  have  none  —  she  has  just  told  you  so  !  Oh,  Hugo, 
how  dull  men  are,  where  love  is  concerned  !  Why  should  they 
object?" 

"  Indeed,  I  cannot  see  any  reason  why  they  should  not  be 
married  in  January,"  said  Hilda's  mother.  But  there  was  a 
shade  of  annoyance  in  her  face,  and  she  bit  her  lip  a  little  as 
she  bent  over  her  work. 

"Very  good,  then,"  pursued  Greifenstein,  as  though  his  wife 
had  not  spoken.  "  We  will  say  the  first  week  in  January,  if  it 
is  agreeable  to  you." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  observed  Frau  von  Greifenstein  with  a  fine 
affectation  of  irony,  "  that  I  might  be  consulted  too." 


GREIFENSTEIN.  43 

The  Lady  of  Sigmundskron  looked  up  quickly,  but  Greifen- 
stein  seemed  to  grow  calmer  than  ever. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  wife,"  he  answered,  with  a  rather  for 
mal  inclination  of  the  head.  "  If  you  will  be  as  kind  as  to 
remember  our  conversation  of  last  night,  you  will  call  to  mind 
that  I  asked  your  consent  to  the  arrangement,  and  that  you  gave 
it  at  once." 

"  Ah  yes  !  "  said  Frau  von  Greifenstein.  ."It  is  true.  I  dare 
say  we  did  speak  of  it.  Ah,  you  see,  the  multiplicity  of  my 
household  cares  drives  these  things  from  my  head  !  " 

Thereupon  her  face  grew  vague  and  expressionless  and  she 
looked  again  at  the  birds  and  the  butterflies. 

"Moreover,"  said  Greifenstein,  now  addressing  his  wife 
directly,  "  I  am  sure  you  will  recollect  that  we  proposed  to  ask 
our  cousin  to  stay  with  us  until  the  young  people  return  from 
their  wedding  trip." 

"Yes  —  yes.  I  believe  we  did,"  replied  Clara  very  vaguely 
and  nodding  her  head  slowly  at  each  word.  "  Indeed  we  did !" 
she  exclaimed  turning  quickly  with  one  of  her  unexpected  smiles. 
"  Of  course  !  Dear,  dear !  What  could  you  do,  all  by  yourself 
up  there  among  those  towers?  Such  a  solitary  life,  and  your 
only  daughter,  too !  How  I  pity  you  1 " 

"  You  are  very  kind.  But  I  am  not  much  to  be  pitied.  Many 
mothers  lose  their  children  altogether  when  they  have  married 
them.  Hilda  will  always  be  near  me,  and  we  can  see  each  other 
as  often  as  we  please." 

"  Your  room  at  Greifenstein  will  always  be  ready  to  receive 
you,"  said  the  master  of  the  house. 

"Oh  always,  always  !  "  affirmed  his  wife  with  great  vivacity. 

The  conversation  languished.  It  was  impracticable  to  discuss 
anything  seriously  in  the  presence  of  Frau  von  Greifenstein,  for 
her  inopportune  interruptions  rendered  any  connected  talk  im 
possible.  Presently  Greifenstein  took  a  newspaper  from  his 
pocket  and  began  to  read  the  news  of  the  day  aloud  to  the  two 
ladies.  He  did  not  read  well,  and  the  sound  of  his  mechanical 
voice  had  a  drowsy  effect  in  the  warm  June  air,  like  the  clack 
ing  of  an  old-fashioned  mill,  dull,  regular  and  monotonous. 
Neither  of  his  companions,  however,  felt  inclined  for  sleep.  His 
wife  watched  the  birds  with  a  weary  look,  and  his  cousin  plied 
her  needle  upon  her  fine  work.  During  many  hundreds  of  after 
noons  like  this  Frau  von  Greifenstein  had  sat  in  the  same  place 


44  GKEIFEN  STEIN. 

hearing  the  same  voice,  and  wearing  the  same  expression.  She 
rarely  listened,  though  she  occasionally  uttered  some  exclama 
tion  more  or  less  appropriate  to  what  she  thought  she  had  heard. 
She  was  generally  asking  herself  whether  she  had  done  well  to 
accept  the  peace  and  the  isolation  that  had  fallen  to  her  lot. 

Her  life  was  certainly  neither  happy  nor  gay.  She  had  all 
that  money  could  give,  but  there  was  no  one  to  see  that  she  had 
it.  Like  glory,  wealth  gives  very  little  satisfaction  unless  there 
is  a  public  to  witness  its  effects,  and  the  pleasure  we  derive  from 
them.  Frau  von  Greifenstein  had  no  public,  and  to  a  nature 
that  is  fond  of  show  the  privation  is  a  great  one.  She  could 
dress  herself  as  gorgeously  as  she  pleased,  but  there  was  no  one 
to  envy  her  splendour,  nor  even  to  admire  it.  For  years  she 
had  played  to  an  empty  house.  If,  by  any  fantastic  combination 
of  events,  it  were  possible  that  a  fairly  good  actress  should  ever 
be  obliged  to  play  the  same  part  every  night  for  five  and  twenty 
years  in  an  absolutely  empty  theatre,  and  if  she  did  not  go  mad 
under  the  ordeal,  she  would  perhaps  turn  out  very  like  the  Lady 
of  Greifenstein.  The  stage  was  always  set  ;  the  scenery  was 
always  of  the  best  and  newest ;  the  vacant  boxes  and  the  yawn 
ing  pit  were  brilliantly  lighted ;  the  costumes  were  by  the  best 
makers;  the  stage  manager  was  punctual  and  in  his  place  ;  the 
curtain  went  up  every  day  for  the  performance  ;  but  Fran  von 
Greifenstein's  theatre  was  silent  and  untenanted,  not  a  voice 
broke  the  stillness,  not  a  rustle  of  garments  or  a  flutter  of  a 
programme  in  a  spectator's  hand  made  the  silence  less  intense, 
not  an  echo  of  applause  woke  a  thrill  of  pride  or  vanity  in  the 
heart  of  the  solitary  performer.  And  the  poor  actress  was 
growing  old,  wasting  her  smiles,  and  her  poses,  and  her  bursts 
of  laughter,  and  her  sudden  entries  on  the  empty  air,  till  by 
mechanical  repetition  they  had  grown  so  meaningless  as  to  be 
almost  terrifying  and  more  than  grotesque. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  she  seemed  so  very  silly.  Incapable  of 
finding  any  serious  resource  in  her  intellect,  she  had  devoted  her 
energies  to  outward  things  in  a  place  where  there  was  no  one  to 
applaud  her  efforts  or  natter  her  vanity.  Many  women  would 
have  given  it  up  and  would  have  fallen  into  a  state  of  listless 
indifference  ;  some  would  have  become  insane.  But  with  Frau 
von  Greifenstein  the  desire  to  please  by  appearance  and  manner 
had  outlasted  any  natural  gift  for  pleasing  which  she  might  once 
have  possessed,  and  had  withstood  the  test  of  solitude  and  the 


GREIFENSTEIN.  45 

damping  atmosphere  created  by  a  total  absence  of  appreciation. 
It  cannot  be  denied  that  her  mind  dwelt  with  bitterness  on  the 
hardness  of  her  situation.  More  than  once  she  had  thought  of 
changing  her  mode  of  life  to  plunge  into  a  pietist  course  of  sim 
plicity  and  asceticism.  But  when  the  morning  came,  the  empti 
ness  of  her  existence  made  the  diversion  of  personal  adornment 
a  necessity.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  And  yet  she  never 
pressed  her  husband  to  go  and  live  in  town,  nor  to  fill  the  castle 
with  visitors.  She  had  lost  all  hold  upon  the  current  of  events 
in  the  outer  world ;  and  as  she  looked  at  herself  in  her  mirror, 
and  saw  better  than  any  one  else  the  remorseless  signature  of 
time  etched  deep  in  the  face  that  had  once  been  pretty,  she  felt 
a  sharp  pain  in  her  breast,  and  a  sinking  at  the  heart,  for  she 
knew  that  it  was  all  over  and  that  she  had  grown  old.  There 
were  even  moments  when  she  feared  lest  she  were  becoming 
ridiculous,  for  she  had  not  originally  been  without  a  certain 
acute  perception  in  regard  to  herself.  But  the  fear  of  ridicule 
is  never  strong  unless  a  comparison  of  ourselves  with  others  is 
possible,  and  Frau  von  Greifenstein  lived  too  much  alone  to 
suffer  long  any  such  imaginary  terrors.  The  time  when  she 
might  still  have  made  a  figure  in  the  world  had  gone  by,  however, 
and  she  knew  it,  and  as  any  desire  for  change  which  she  had  for 
merly  felt  had  sprung  from  the  wish  to  be  seen,  rather  than  from 
the  wish  to  see  others,  she  was  becoming  resigned  to  her  fate. 
She  had  reached  that  sad  period  at  which  half  the  pleasure  of 
life  consists  in  dreaming  of  what  one  might  have  done  twenty 
years  ago.  It  is  a  dreary  amusement,  but  people  who  are  very 
hopeless  and  solitary  find  it  better  than  none  at  all. 

Greifenstein  read  on,  without  much  punctuation  and  with  no 
change  of  tone.  There  was  an  article  upon  the  European  situ 
ation,  another  upon  tariffs,  the  court  news,  the  gazette,  the 
festivities  projected  for  a  certain  great  event.  It  was  all  the 
same  to  him. 

"In  view  of  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  his  majesty  has 
deigned  to  grant  amnesty  to  all  political  —  " 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  coughed,  running  his  eye  along  the 
lines  that  followed. 

"  To  all  what?"  inquired  his  wife  with  a  show  of  interest. 

"  To  all  political  offenders  concerned  in  the  revolutionary 
movements  of  1848  and  1849,"  continued  Greifenstein,  who  sat 
up  very  straight  in  his  chair  and  tried  to  read  more  mechanically 


46  GREIFENSTEIN. 

than  usual,  though  his  voice  grew  unaccountably  husky.  What 
followed  was  merely  a  eulogium  upon  the  imperial  clemency, 
and  he  read  on  rapidly  without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  printed 
sheet.  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  uttered  a  little  exclamation. 
She  had  pricked  her  thin  white  finger  with  her  needle.  The 
Lady  of  Greifenstein  saw  the  tiny  drop  of  blood,  and  immedi 
ately  exhibited  an  amount  of  emotion  out  of  all  proportion  with 
the  accident. 

"  Oh,  what  have  you  done  !  "  she  cried,  and  she  was  pale  with 
anxiety  as  she  bent  forward  and  insisted  on  seeing  the  scratch. 
"  But,  my  dear,  you  have  wounded  yourself !  Your  finger  is 
bleeding!  Oh,  it  is  too  dreadful !  You  must  have  some  water, 
and  I  will  go  and  get  you  some  court-plaster  —  do  be  careful ! 
Bind  it  up  with  your  handkerchief  till  I  come !  " 

She  rose  quickly,  and  Pretzel  for  once  was  forgotten,  and 
rolled  from  her  knees  to  the  grass,  falling  upon  all-fours  with  a 
pathetic  little  squeak.  But  Frau  von  Greifenstein  picked  him 
up  and  fled  towards  the  house  in  search  of  the  plaster  before  he 
could  make  any  further  protest  against  such  rough  treatment. 

"  My  wife  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  blood,"  observed  Greifen 
stein,  who  had  lowered  the  newspaper  and  was  looking  over  his 
glasses  at  his  cousin's  hand. 

"  The  wound  is  not  dangerous,"  she  answered  with  an  attempt 
to  smile,  but  her  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  Greifenstein's  with  a 
look  of  anxious  inquiry. 

"  He  will  come  back,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  the  colour 
slowly  left  his  face. 

"Do  you  think  it  possible?"  asked  his  cousin  in  the  same 
tone. 

"  It  is  certain.  He  is  included  in  the  amnesty.  He  has  hoped 
for  it  these  many  years." 

"  Even  if  he  does  —  he  will  not  come  here.  You  will  never 
see  him." 

"No.  I  will  not  see  him.  But  he  will  be  in  Germany.  It  is 
for  Greif  —  "  he  stopped,  as  though  he  were  choking  with  an 
ger,  but  excepting  by  the  pallor  of  his  stern  features,  his  face 
expressed  nothing  of  what  he  felt. 

"  Greif  will  live  here  and  will  never  see  him  either,"  said  Frau 
von  Sigmundskron.  "  Besides,  he  does  not  know  —  " 

"  He  knows.  Some  student  told  him  and  got  a  sabre  cut  for 
his  pains.  He  knows,  for  he  told  me  so  only  yesterday." 


GREIFENSTEEST.  47 

"  That  only  makes  it  easier,  then.  Greif  will  be  warned,  and 
need  never  come  into  contact  with  him.  Hilda  would  not  un 
derstand,  even  if  she  were  told.  What  can  she  know  about 
revolutions  and  those  wild  times  ?  I  am  sure  he  will  never 
attempt  to  come  here." 

"He  shall  not  sleep  under  my  roof,  not  if  he  is  starving!  " 
exclaimed  Greifenstein  fiercely.  "  If  he  had  not  been  the  dog 
he  is,  he  would  have  made  an  end  of  himself  long  ago." 

"  Do  not  say  that,  cousin.  It  was  better  that  he  should  live 
out  his  life  in  a  foreign  country  than  do  such  a  bad  thing." 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you.  When  a  man  has  taken  Judas 
Iscariot  for  his  model  I  think  he  ought  to  follow  so  eminent  an 
example  to  the  end." 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  did  not  wish  to  argue  the  point. 
Far  down  in  her  heart  there  existed  an  aristocratic  and  highly 
irreligious  prejudice  about  such  matters,  and  though  her  con 
victions  told  her  that  suicide  was  a  crime,  her  personal  senti 
ment  of  honour  required  that  a  man  who  had  disgraced  himself 
should  put  an  end  to  his  existence  forthwith. 

"  He  will  write,  if  he  means  to  come,"  she  observed,  by  way 
of  changing  the  current  of  the  conversation. 

"  It  would  be  more  like  him  to  force  himself  upon  me  without 
warning,"  said  Greifenstein,  folding  the  paper  with  his  lean  strong 
hands  and  drawing  his  thumb-nail  sharply  along  the  doubled 
edges.  The  action  was  unconscious,  but  was  mechanically  and 
neatly  performed,  like  most  things  the  man  did.  Then  he 
opened  it,  spread  it  out  and  looked  again  at  the  passage  that 
contained  the  news.  Suddenly  his  expression  changed. 

"  I  do  not  believe  he  is  included  in  the  amnesty,"  he  said. 
"  He  was  not  convicted  for  a  political  misdeed,  but  for  a  military 
crime  involving  a  breach  of  trust.  He  aggravated  his  offence 
by  escaping.  I  do  not  believe  that  he  is  included." 

"  But  will  he  not  believe  it  himself  ? "  asked  Frau  von  Sig 
mundskron. 

"It  will  be  at  his  peril,  then."  Greifenstein's  face  expressed 
a  momentary  satisfaction.  Again  he  folded  the  paper  with  the 
utmost  care,  evidently  reflecting  upon  the  situation. 

"  I  suppose  he  will  be  sent  back  to  the  fortress,"  observed  his 
companion. 

"  I  would  almost  rather  he  were  pardoned,  than  that,"  an 
swered  Greifenstein  gloomily.  "The  whole  scandal  would  be 


48  GREIFENSTEIN. 

revived  —  my  name  would  appear,  it  would  be  a  fresh  injury  to 
Greif.     And  my  wife  knows  nothing  of  it.      She  would  hear 

it  all." 

"Does  she  know  nothing?"  asked  Fran  von  Sigmundskron, 
looking  curiously  at  her  cousin. 

"  Not  a  word.     She  never  heard  his  name." 

"  I  could  not  help  supposing  that  she  left  us  just  now  because 
she  was  disturbed  at  the  news  —  and  she  has  not  come  back." 

"  She  is  not  so  diplomatic  as  that,"  answered  Greifenstein 
with  something  like  a  grim  smile.  "  She  forgets  things  easily, 
and  has  probably  been  detained  by  some  household  matter." 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  could  not  help  admiring  the  way  in 
which  Greifenstein  always  spoke  of  his  wife,  excusing  her  more 
noticeable  eccentricities,  and  affecting  to  ignore  her  minor  pecul 
iarities,  with  a  consistent  dignity  few  men  could  have  sustained 
in  the  society  of  such  a  woman.  It  was  a  part  of  his  principle 
of  life,  and  he  never  deviated  from  it.  It  had  perhaps  been 
strengthened  by  the  necessity  of  teaching  Greif  to  respect  his 
mother  and  to  treat  her  with  a  proper  show  of  reverence,  but 
the  prime  feeling  itself  was  inseparable  from  his  character,  and 
did  honour  to  it.  Whatever  he  might  think  of  his  wife,  no 
living  person  should  ever  suspect  that  he  could  have  wished  her  to 
be  different.  He  had  chosen  her  and  he  must  abide  by  his  choice. 

But  his  cousin  was  a  very  keen-sighted  person  and  understood 
him  better  than  he  guessed,  admiring  his  forbearance  and  giv 
ing  him  full  credit  for  his  constancy.  She  had  her  own  opinions 
concerning  his  wife,  and  did  not  like  her ;  nor  was  she  quite 
free  from  a  disturbing  apprehension  lest  at  some  future  time 
Greif  might  develop  some  of  his  mother's  undesirable  peculiar 
ities.  At  present,  indeed,  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  which 
could  justify  such  fears ;  but  she  found  it  hard  to  believe  that 
the  young  man  had  inherited  nothing  whatever  from  his  mother. 
She  could  remember  the  time  when  Frau  von  Greifenstein  had 
been  younger  and  fresher,  when  her  hair  had  been  less  dull  and 
colourless,  and  when  her  complexion  had  possessed  something 
of  that  radiance  which  was  so  especially  noticeable  in  her  son. 
And  yet  Hilda's  mother  felt  instinctively  that  she  could  never 
dislike  Greif,  even  if  he  became  vain  and  foolish,  which  did  not 
seem  very  probable. 

For  some  minutes  neither  of  the  cousins  spoke,  and  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron  sat  doing  nothing,  which  was  altogether  con- 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  49 

trary  to  her  nature,  her  work  lying  upon  her  knees  and  her 
hands  joined  one  upon  the  other.  As  for  Greifenstein,  he  had 
at  last  folded  the  paper  to  his  satisfaction  and  had  returned  it 
to  his  pocket.  Presently  the  sound  of  his  wife's  footsteps  was 
heard  upon  the  gravel  path.  She  seemed  less  excited  than 
when  she  had  left  her  seat. 

"  I  have  kept  you  waiting,"  she  said,  as  she  came  up.  "  I 
could  not  find  what  I  wanted,  and  when  I  did  that  dreadful 
Pretzel  was  swallowing  a  pair  of  scissors  and  nearly  had  a  fit, 
so  that  I  had  to  give  him  a  hot  bath  to  calm  him.  He  is  such  a 
care  !  You  have  no  idea  —  but  here  it  is,  if  it  is  not  too  late.  I 
am  so  dreadfully  sorry !  I  thought  I  should  have  died  !  Do 
let  me  put  it  upon  your  finger." 

The  scratch  had  entirely  disappeared,  but  Frau  von  Sig- 
mundskron  did  not  wish  to  appear  ungracious,  or  ungrateful, 
and  held  out  her  hand  without  any  remark.  It  would  have 
seemed  uncharitable  to  make  Clara's  errand  look  wholly  super 
fluous  before  Greifenstein.  But  he  paid  very  little  attention  to 
what  was  passing,  for  he  was  preoccupied  with  his  own  thoughts, 
and  before  long  he  rose,  excused  himself  for  going  away  by 
saying  that  he  had  some  pressing  correspondence,  and  left  the 
two  ladies  to  their  own  devices. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  felt  rather  uncomfortable,  as  she 
always  did  when  she  was  alone  with  her  hostess.  To-day  she 
had  an  unpleasant  consciousness  that  she  was  in  the  way,  and 
that,  if  she  were  not  present,  Clara  would  have  already  disap 
peared,  in  order  to  be  alone.  She  resolved  to  make  the  inter 
view  as  short  as  possible. 

"  The  weather  is  very  warm,"  she  remarked,  as  a  preparatory 
move  towards  going  into  the  house. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  asked  her  companion  as  though  she  had  been  told 
something  very  unusual. 

"  It  seems  so  to  me,"  responded  the  baroness,  rather  surprised 
that  the  fact  should  be  questioned.  "  But  then,  it  always  seems 
warmer  here  after  Sigmundskron." 

"  Yes  —  yes,  perhaps  so.  I  daresay  it  is.  How  very  good  of 
his  majesty  —  is  it  not?  " 

"To  grant  an  amnesty?" 

"  Yes,  to  forgive  those  dreadful  creatures  who  did  so  much 
harm.  I  am  sure  I  would  have  not  done  it  —  would  you?  But 
you  are  so  good  —  did  you  ever  know  any  of  them  ?  " 


50  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  Oh  no,  never.  I  was  —  "  She  was  going  to  say  that  she 
had  been  too  young,  but  she  was  stopped  by  a  feeling  of  con 
sideration  for  Clara.  "  I  was  never  in  the  way  of  seeing  them," 
she  said,  completing  the  sentence. 

"  As  for  me,"  said  Clara,  "  I  was  a  mere  child,  quite  a  little 
thing  you  know."  An  engaging  smile  — poor  woman,  it  was 
more  than  half  mechanical  and  unconscious  —  emphasised  this 
assertion  of  her  youth. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  in  whom  enforced  economy  had 
developed  an  unusual  facility  for  mental  arithmetic,  could  not 
refrain  from  making  a  quick  calculation.  Forty-eight  from 
eighty-eight,  forty — a  young  thing,  perhaps  ten  — ten  and  forty, 
fifty.  Clara  was  virtually  admitting  that  she  was  fifty,  and  if 
she  owned  to  that,  she  must  be  nearer  sixty.  In  other  words, 
she  must  have  been  well  over  thirty  when  she  had  married 
Greifenstein.  She  was  certainly  wonderfully  well  preserved. 
And  yet  Greifenstein  had  more  than  once  told  his  cousin  that 
he  had  married  his  wife  when  she  was  a  widow  five  and  twenty 
years  of  age.  This  was  the  first  occasion  upon  which  Clara  had 
ever  let  fall  a  word  which  could  serve  as  a  starting-point  in  the 
calculation,  and  though  the  baroness  was  the  best  and  kindest 
of  mortals  she  would  not  have  been  a  woman  if  she  had  failed 
to  notice  the  statement,  or  to  draw  from  it  such  conclusions  as 
it  offered  to  her  ingenuity. 

"  The  people  who  profit  by  the  pardon  will  be  old  men,"  she 
remarked. 

"  Old  ? "  repeated  Clara  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  start. 
"  Not  so  very.  They  may  be  less  than  sixty  —  a  man  of  sixty 
is  still  young  at  that  age.  I  wonder  whether  any  of  them  will 
profit  by  the  permission  to  return.  What  do  you  think, 
Therese  ?  " 

The  question  was  asked  with  every  show  of  interest,  and  the 
baroness  raised  her  quiet  eyes  from  her  work.  She  and  Clara 
very  rarely  called  each  other  by  their  first  names.  They  gener 
ally  avoided  the  difficulty  by  a  plentiful  use  of  the  convenient 
designation  of  cousin.  Frau  von  Greifenstein  evidently  meant 
to  be  more  than  usually  confidential,  and  her  companion  won 
dered  what  was  coming,  and  began  to  feel  nervous. 

"  Really,"  she  answered,  "  I  do  not  know.  I  suppose  that  a 
man  who  has  been  expelled  from  his  country  and  exiled  for 
many  years,  would  naturally  take  the  first  opportunity  of 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  51 

returning.  I  should  think  it  probable.  On  the  other  hand  —  " 
she  stopped  a  moment,  to  smooth  a  stitch  in  her  work. 

"On  the  other  hand?"  repeated  Clara  anxiously. 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to  say  that  in  forty  years,  a  man  might 
learn  to  love  an  adopted  country  as  well  as  his  own,  and  might 
prefer  to  stay  there.  It  would  depend  upon  the  man,  upon  his 
character,  his  tastes,  perhaps  upon  whether  he  had  gone  into 
the  revolution  out  of  mistaken  patriotism,  or  out  of  personal 
ambition." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  Why?"  Frau  von  Greifenstein  seemed 
deeply  interested. 

"  Because  I  fancy  that  a  patriot  would  come  back  at  any  rate. 
His  love  of  his  country  would  be  the  strongest  element  in  his 
nature.  An  ambitious  man  would  either  have  found  a  field  for 
his  ambition  elsewhere  in  forty  years,  or  the  passion  would 
have  died  a  natural  death  by  that  time." 

"  Ah  yes !  There  is  truth  in  that !  But  what  a  dreadfully 
extraordinary  position !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  one  of  her  unex 
pected  bursts  of  laughter.  "  What  a  novel !  Do  you  not  see  it ! 
Oh,  if  I  were  only  a  novelist,  what  a  plot  I  could  make  out  of 
that  1  Dearest  cousin,  is  it  not  time  to  have  coffee  ?  " 


52  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FROM  that  day  the  life  at  Greifenstein  became  even  more 
drearily  monotonous  than  it  had  been  before,  for  all  the  party 
excepting  Greif  and  Hilda.  To  any  one  not  accustomed  to  the 
atmosphere  the  existence  would  have  been  unbearable,  but 
humanity  can  grow  used  to  anything  by  degrees.  A  stranger 
finding  himself  unexpectedly  at  the  castle  would  have  felt  that 
the  sweet  air  of  the  forest  was  poisoned  at  that  one  point  by 
some  subtle  and  undefinable  element,  that  appealed  to  none  of 
the  senses  in  particular,  but  oppressed  them  all  alike.  The 
sensation  was  not  like  that  caused  by  a  vague  anxiety,  or  by 
the  shadow  of  a  corning  event  creeping  mysteriously  onward, 
a  mere  uneasiness  as  to  the  result  which  must  soon  be  apparent, 
but  of  which  it  is  not  possible  to  say  whether  it  will  be  good  or 
bad.  It  was  worse  than  that,  for  if  there  were  to  be  any  result 
at  all,  it  must  be  very  bad  indeed.  Greifenstein  himself  felt 
as  he  supposed  a  criminal  might  feel  who  was  hourly  expecting 
discovery.  If  his  half-brother  returned,  the  suffering  caused  by 
his  presence  in  the  country  would  be  almost  as  great  as  the 
shame  of  having  committed  his  crime  could  have  been.  Frau 
von  Sigmundskron  w7as  more  indifferent,  for  she  had  never 
known  the  man,  and  her  knowledge  of  what  he  had  done  was 
less  accurate  than  Greifenstein's.  But  she  was  nevertheless 
very  uncomfortable  when  she  thought  of  his  appearance.  It 
had  been  judged  best  to  acquaint  Greif  with  the  proclamation 
of  the  amnesty,  in  order  that  he  might  be  prepared  for  any  con 
tingency,  but  the  news  made  very  little  impression  upon  him, 
for  he  had  learned  the  existence  of  his  disgraced  relative  so 
recently  that  he  had  from  the  first  feared  his  return,  and  had 
thought  of  what  he  should  do  ever  since.  Moreover  he  had 
Hilda  with  him,  and  he  was  very  young,  two  circumstances 
which  greatly  diminished  his  anxiety  about  the  future.  He 
was  very  glad,  however,  that  his  academical  career  was  so  near 
its  end,  for  he  reflected  that  it  would  be  tiresome  to  be  constantly 


GREIFENSTEIN.  53 

fighting  duels  about  his  uncle.  For  the  present,  he  had  aban 
doned  the  idea  of  taking  active  service  in  the  army. 

Greifenstein  was  more  silent,  and  stiff,  and  severely  conscien 
tious  than  ever,  and  his  daily  habits  grew  if  possible  more 
unbendingly  regular,  as  though  he  were  protesting  already 
against  any  unpleasant  disturbance  in  his  course  of  life  which 
might  be  in  store  for  him.  When  he  was  alone  with  his  cousin, 
he  never  recurred  to  the  subject  of  Rieseneck  or  his  return, 
though  the  baroness  constantly  expected  him  to  do  so,  and 
watched  his  inscrutable  face  to  detect  some  signs  of  a  wish  to 
discuss  the  matter.  For  two  reasons,  she  would  not  take  the 
initiative  in  bringing  up  the  topic.  In  the  first  place,  as  he  was 
the  person  most  nearly  concerned,  her  tact  told  her  that  it  was 
for  him  to  decide  whether  he  would  talk  of  his  brother  or  not. 
Secondly  she  was  silent,  because  she  had  noticed  something, 
and  knew  that  he  had  noticed  it  also.  Frau  von  Greif  en  stein's 
behaviour  was  slowly  changing,  and  the  change  had  begun 
from  the  hour  in  which  her  husband  had  read  from  the  paper 
the  paragraph  relating  to  the  amnesty. 

From  the  first  moment,  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  had  sus 
pected  that  Clara  was  affected  by  the  news,  and  her  first  impres 
sion  had  very  naturally  been  that  she  knew  the  story  and  had 
learned  it  from  her  husband.  There  was  nothing  improbable 
in  the  idea,  and  but  for  Greif enstein's  words,  she  would  have 
taken  it  for  granted  that  this  was  the  true  state  of  the  case. 
He,  however,  had  emphatically  denied  that  Clara  was  in  the 
secret,  and  had  evidently  looked  forward  with  pain  to  the 
moment  when  he  should  be  obliged  to  communicate  it  to  her. 
He  was  the  most  scrupulously  truthful  of  men,  and  could  not 
have  had  any  object  in  concealing  the  point  from  his  cousin. 
And  yet  there  was  no  doubt  that  his  wife's  manner  had  changed, 
and  the  baroness  could  see  that  Greifenstein  was  aware  of  it. 
Clara's  vague  absence  of  mind,  which  had  formerly  been  only 
occasional,  was  increasing,  while  her  fits  of  spasmodic  laughter 
became  fewer,  till  at  last  whole  days  passed  during  which  her 
features  were  not  disturbed  by  a  single  smile.  There  was 
indeed  little  to  laugh  at  in  her  home,  at  the  best,  but  she  had 
laughed  frequently  nevertheless,  because  people  had  told  her 
long  ago  that  it  was  becoming  to  her  style  of  beauty.  But 
she  was  growing  daily  more  silent  and  abstracted,  scarcely 
speaking  at  all,  and  not  even  pretending  to  be  amused  at  any- 


54  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

thing.  Greifenstein  watched  her  for  a  week,  and  then  inquired 
whether  she  were  ill.  She  thanked  him  and  said  there  was 
nothing  the  matter,  but  during  some  hours  after  he  had  asked 
the  question  she  made  an  evident  effort  to  return  to  her  former 
manner.  The  effect  was  painful  in  the  extreme.  Her  affected 
mirth  seemed  more  hollow  than  ever,  and  her  words  more 
incoherent.  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  began  to  fear  that  Clara 
was  going  mad,  but  the  latter  was  not  equal  to  sustaining  the 
effort  long,  and  soon  relapsed  into  her  former  silence.  Her 
face  grew  suddenly  very  old.  She  moved  more  slowly.  The 
wrinkles  deepened  almost  visibly,  and  she  became  daily  thinner. 
It  was  evident  that  something  was  preying  upon  her,  and  that 
the  mental  suffering  was  reacting  upon  her  body. 

Greifenstein  said  nothing  more,  and  he  told  no  one  what  he 
thought.  If  his  cousin  had  not  suggested  to  him  that  Clara 
must  know  the  story,  he  would  have  supposed  that  she  was  ill, 
and  would  have  sent  for  a  physician.  It  would  never  have 
entered  his  mind  that  she  could  have  understood  all  that  the 
proclamation  of  the  amnesty  meant  to  him.  He  would  have 
supposed  it  a  coincidence  that  she  should  have  been  first  affected 
by  the  malady  on  that  particular  day.  But  the  baroness's 
remark  had  had  the  effect  of  fixing  in  his  mind  what  had 
immediately  preceded  it.  He  remembered  how  his  wife  had 
suddenly  taken  advantage  of  a  most  trivial  excuse,  to  show  an 
amount  of  exaggerated  emotion  unusual  even  for  her.  He 
remembered  her  long  absence  and  her  changed  expression  when 
she  returned,  her  silence  that  evening  and  her  increasing  taci 
turnity  ever  since.  The  connexion  between  the  paragraph  and 
her  conduct  seemed  certain,  and  Greifenstein  set  himself  syste 
matically  to  think  out  some  explanation  for  the  facts.  In  five 
and  twenty  years  Rieseneck's  name  had  never  been  mentioned 
in  her  presence.  If  she  had  ever  heard  of  him  it  must  have 
been  before  she  had  married  Greifenstein.  It  was  possible  that 
she  might  feel  the  disgrace  involved  in  the  man's  return  so 
keenly  as  to  suffer  physically  at  the  thought  of  it ;  but  Greifen- 
stein's  common  sense  told  him  that  this  was  very  improbable. 
In  such  a  case  it  would  have  been  far  more  natural  for  her  to 
come  to  her  husband  and  ask  to  be  told  the  whole  truth.  It 
was  easier  to  believe  that  her  conduct  was  due  to  some  other 
cause,  that  she  had  really  never  heard  of  Rieseneck's  existence, 
and  that  there  was  some  other  person  whose  possible  return, 


GREIFENSTEIN.  55 

in  consequence  of  the  amnesty,  she  dreaded  as  much  as  Greif- 
enstein  feared  the  reappearance  of  his  half-brother.  Many 
persons  had  been  involved  in  the  revolutionary  movements  of 
1848  and  had  been  obliged  to  leave  the  country  in  consequence. 
Clara's  first  husband  had  died  of  heart  disease  in  Dresden  in 
the  year  1860,  and  consequently  could  not  have  been  connected 
with  the  events  of  those  times  in  any  way  to  his  discredit. 
She  had  shown  Greifenstein  the  official  notice  of  his  death 
in  an  old  gazette  of  the  period.  But  it  was  not  unlikely  that 
in  those  unsettled  times  one  of  her  relations  might  have  got 
into  trouble  and  been  exiled  or  imprisoned.  At  the  time  of 
her  marriage  however  she  had  acknowledged  no  relative  except 
ing  an  elderly  aunt  who  had  been  present  at  the  wedding,  but 
who  had  died  since,  without  ever  paying  a  visit  to  the  castle, 
and  no  other  connexion  of  hers  had  ever  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  Greifenstein  was  well  aware  that  he  had  hurried  the 
marriage  by  every  means  in  his  power.  He  had  been  fascinated 
by  Clara,  and  had  been  madly  in  love.  They  had  met  in  the 
Bavarian  highlands  and  had  been  married  two  months  later 
in  Munich,  with  very  little  formality.  Since  that  time  Greifen 
stein  had  always  avoided  going  to  Dresden,  on  account  of  the 
painful  associations  the  city  must  have  for  his  wife,  and  had 
preferred  not  to  visit  Berlin,  which  had  been  the  scene  of  his 
brother's  crime  and  trial.  The  consequence  was  that  neither 
of  the  two  had  ever  been  among  people  who  had  known  them 
previously. 

The  idea  that  two  disgraced  persons  might  come  back  from 
exile,  instead  of  one,  was  extremely  disquieting  to  Greifenstein's 
peace  of  mind.  He  knew  well  enough  what  to  do  with  Riese- 
neck  if  he  appeared.  He  would  shut  the  gates  and  let  him 
shift  for  himself.  But  the  other  man  would  be  in  search  of 
Clara.  He  wondered  who  he  might  be,  and  what  their  relations 
could  have  been,  whether  he  would  turn  out  to  be  a  brother,  an 
uncle,  or  merely  some  man  who  had  loved  her  in  former  days, 
a  mere  rejected  suitor.  Even  should  he  prove  to  be  her  brother, 
he  could  not  reproach  her  for  her  silence,  since  he  found  him 
self  in  exactly  the  same  situation.  That  contingency,  however, 
was  remote.  It  was  extremely  unlikely  that  each  should  have 
a  brother  who  had  been  convicted  of  evil  deeds  in  the  revolu 
tion,  considering  how  short  a  time  the  disturbance  had  lasted. 
The  theory  that  the  man  was  a  disappointed  pretender  to  her 


56  GREIFENSTEIN. 

hand  was  infinitely  more  probable.  In  any  case,  Greifenstein 
made  up  his  mind  that  a  person  existed  whose  return  Clara 
feared,  and  the  prospect  of  whose  appearance  was  so  painful  as 
to  affect  her  health. 

For  some  time  he  hesitated  as  to  the  course  he  should  pursue. 
He  was  certainly  free  to  tell  her  his  suspicions,  on  condition 
that  he  told  her  of  his  own  apprehensions  at  the  same  time. 
To  get  her  secret  without  giving  his  in  return  would  be  unfair, 
according  to  his  notions  of  honour,  even  apart  from  the  con 
sideration  that  if  Rieseneck  came  back  he  would  ultimately  be 
obliged  to  confide  in  her.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was 
a  possibility  that  Rieseneck  might  not  come  back,  after  all,  and 
in  that  case,  if  he  had  told  her  everything,  he  would  have  sub 
mitted  himself  to  a  painful  humiliation  without  necessity.  He 
resolved  to  keep  his  own  counsel  and  at  the  same  time  to  ask 
his  wife  no  questions. 

Rieseneck  was  in  South  America,  but  Greifenstein  had  no 
reason  for  supposing  that  the  person  whose  possible  return  so 
greatly  disturbed  Clara  had  betaken  himself  to  so  distant  a 
country.  He  might  be  in  Italy,  in  France,  in  England,  any 
where  within  eight  and  forty  hours'  journey.  He  might  there 
fore  arrive  at  any  moment  after  the  proclamation. 

But  no  stranger  came,  though  the  days  became  weeks,  and 
the  weeks  months,  until  it  was  almost  time  for  Greif  to  go  back 
to  Schwarzburg.  Greifenstein  began  to  think  that  the  prob 
lematical  personage  wras  dead,  though  Clara  evidently  did  not 
share  his  opinion,  for  she  never  regained  her  former  manner. 
Under  any  other  circumstances  Greifenstein  would  have  enjoyed 
the  change,  the  absence  of  irrelevant  interruption,  the  rest  from 
her  unnatural  laughter,  the  gravity  of  her  tired  face.  He  was 
far  from  being  satisfied,  however,  and  his  earnest  mind  brooded 
constantly  over  the  possibilities  of  the  unknown  future.  His 
situation  was  the  harder  to  bear  because  he  could  not  explain 
it  to  his  son,  the  only  human  being  for  whom  he  felt  a  strong 
natural  sympathy.  It  would  have  seemed  like  teaching  the  boy 
to  suspect  his  mother  of  some  evil. 

Greif  secretly  wondered  what  was  happening  in  his  home. 
The  atmosphere  was  unbearably  oppressive,  and  if  he  had  not 
been  able  to  spend  most  of  his  time  with  Hilda  he  would  have 
asked  his  father's  permission  to  take  his  knapsack  and  go  for 
a  walking  expedition  in  Switzerland,  on  the  chance  of  falling 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  67 

in  with  a  fellow-student.  He  had  noticed  the  change  in  his 
mother  from  the  first,  and  asked  her  daily  if  she  were  not  better. 
Clara  would  not  admit  that  she  was  ill,  but  she  looked  at  Greif 
with  an  expression  to  which  he  was  not  accustomed  and  which 
made  him  nervous.  Hitherto  he  had  never  quite  known  whether 
she  loved  him  or  not.  She  had  spoiled  him  as  much  as  she 
dared  when  he  was  a  child,  but  there  had  always  been  some 
thing  in  her  way  of  indulging  him  which,  even  to  the  little  boy, 
had  not  seemed  genuine.  Children  rarely  love  those  who  spoil 
them,  and  never  trust  them.  Their  keen  young  sense  detects 
the  false  note  in  the  character,  and  draws  its  own  conclusions, 
which  are  generally  very  just.  Greif  had  found  out  when  he 
was  very  young  that  his  mother  gave  him  everything  he  asked 
for,  not  because  she  loved  him,  but  because  she  was  too  weak 
to  refuse,  and  too  indolent  to  care  for  the  result.  He  had  found 
her  inaccurate  in  what  she  told  him,  and  negligent  in  fulfilling 
the  little  promises  upon  which  a  child  builds  such  great  hopes, 
though  she  was  always  ready  to  pay  damages  for  her  forgetful- 
ness  by  excessive  indulgence  in  something  else,  when  it  was 
agreeable  to  her.  Greif  had  discovered  that  his  father  rarely 
promised  him  anything,  but  that  if  he  did,  it  was  something 
worth  having,  and  that  he  was  scrupulously  exact  in  keeping 
his  word  about  such  matters,  even  at  the  expense  of  his  own 
convenience.  He  consequently  admired  his  father  and  was 
proud  to  imitate  him ;  whereas  he  very  soon  learned  to  consider 
his  mother  as  a  person  of  inferior  intelligence,  who  did  not 
know  enough  to  be  accurate,  and  who  did  not  respect  herself 
enough  to  fulfil  her  promises.  But  for  his  father's  influence  he 
would  probably  have  ended  by  showing  what  he  felt.  Greifen- 
stein,  however,  exacted  from  him  an  unvarying  reverence  and 
courtesy  towards  his  mother,  and  never,  even  in  moments  of 
the  greatest  confidence,  permitted  the  boy  to  criticise  the  least 
of  her  actions. 

To  tell  Greif  of  the  suspicions  which  agitated  his  own  mind 
was  therefore  contrary  to  Greifenstein's  fixed  principles,  and 
consequently  utterly  impossible.  In  reply  to  his  questions 
about  his  mother's  health  the  only  answer  which  was  at  once 
plausible  and  in  accordance  with  truth  was  the  plain  statement 
that  Clara  denied  being  ill,  but  that  she  nevertheless  appeared 
to  be  suffering  from  some  unknown  complaint.  Greif  was  not 
satisfied,  but  his  own  ingenuity  could  discover  no  explanation 


58  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

of  the  facts,  and  he  was  obliged  to  hold  his  peace.  His  mother's 
manner  and  her  look  when  he  spoke  to  her  disturbed  him.  It 
was  as  though  her  uncertain  and  careless  affection  had  suddenly 
developed  into  something  more  true  and  sincere.  There  was 
something  wistful  in  the  fixed  gaze  of  her  eyes,  as  though  she 
feared  to  know  what  was  in  his  heart,  and  yet  longed  for  some 
more  frank  expression  of  his  love  for  her  than  that  mere  reveren 
tial  courtesy  which  he  had  been  taught  to  show  his  mother  since 
he  was  a  child.  Being  very  young  and  of  a  very  kind  heart,  Greif 
began  to  wonder  whether  he  had  not  misunderstood  her  through 
out  many  years.  He  possessed  that  kind  of  nature  which  cannot 
long  refrain  from  returning  any  sort  of  affection  it  receives, 
provided  that  affection  appears  to  be  genuine.  He  gradually 
began  to  feel  a  responsive  thrill  in  his  heart  when  he  saw  that 
his  mother's  sad  eyes  watched  his  movements  and  lingered  upon 
his  face.  The  tone  of  his  voice  began  to  change  when  he 
addressed  her,  though  he  was  scarcely  conscious  of  it.  His 
words  became  gentler  and  more  sympathetic,  as  his  thoughts  of 
her  assumed  a  kindlier  disposition.  He  began  to  reproach  him 
self  with  his  former  coldness,  and  he  frankly  owned  to  himself 
that  he  had  misunderstood  her. 

It  had  always  been  his  custom  to  go  to  his  mother's  boudoir 
in  the  morning,  when  he  had  not  already  left  the  house  before 
she  was  visible.  It  was  rather  a  formal  affair.  Greif  knocked 
at  the  door  and  waited  for  her  answer.  Being  admitted,  he 
went  to  his  mother  and  kissed  her  hand.  She  kissed  his  fore 
head  in  return.  He  asked  her  how  she  was,  and  she  inquired 
what  he  was  going  to  do  during  the  day.  After  five  minutes 
of  conversation,  he  generally  took  leave  of  her  with  the  same 
ceremony,  and  departed.  He  usually  avoided  being  with  her 
at  any  other  time,  and  accident  rarely  brought  them  together 
in  the  course  of  the  day,  for  Greif  was  always  with  Hilda  or 
with  his  father.  Very  gradually,  he  began  to  find  this  morning 
visit  less  irksome.  He  fancied  that  his  mother  would  willingly 
have  detained  him  a  little  longer,  but  that  she  felt  how  little  he 
could  care  for  her  society  as  compared  with  that  of  Hilda. 
Then,  too,  she  had  grown  so  sad  and  silent  as  to  excite  in  him 
a  sort  of  pity.  At  last  the  feeling  that  was  drawing  them  closer 
found  expression. 

Greif  had  made  his  usual  visit  one  morning  and  was  about  to 
leave  the  room.  Her  sorrowful,  faded  eyes  looked  up  to  his, 


GREIFENSTEIN.  59 

and  slowly  filled  with  tears.  He  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
speak,  and  yielded  to  it. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  kneeling  down  beside  her,  and  taking  her 
hand  affectionately  in  his,  "what  is  it?  Why  are  you  ill,  and 
sad?  Will  you  not  tell  me? " 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  longer,  wonderingly,  as  though 
hardly  believing  what  she  saw.  Then  she  broke  down.  The 
long  restrained  tears  welled  up  and  rolled  over  her  thin  cheeks, 
making  lines  and  patches  in  the  pink  powder,  at  once  grotesque 
and  pitiful.  The  carefully  curled  ringlets  of  colourless  hair 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  sudden  havoc  in  her  complexion. 
Perhaps  she  was  conscious  of  it,  for  she  tried  to  turn  her  face 
away,  so  that  Greif  should  not  see  it.  Then  all  at  once,  with 
a  heartrending  sob,  she  let  her  head  fall  forward  upon  his 
shoulder,  while  her  nervous,  wasted  hands  grasped  his  two 
arms  convulsively. 

"  Oh  Greif !     I  am  a  very  miserable  old  woman  !  "  she  cried. 

"What  is  it,  mother?  Oh,  tell  me  what  is  the  matter!"  he 
exclaimed,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  but  amazed  at  the  out 
burst  he  had  so  little  anticipated. 

For  some  moments  she  could  say  nothing.  Greif  held  her, 
and  prevented  her  from  slipping  off  her  seat.  Looking  down, 
though  he  could  not  see  her  face,  he  could  see  well  enough  how 
the  tears  fell  fast  and  thick  upon  the  rough  sleeve  of  his  shoot 
ing  coat  and  trickled  down  the  woollen  material  till  they  rolled 
off  at  his  elbow.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do,  for  he  had 
never  seen  her  cry  before,  and  was  indeed  little  accustomed  to 
woman's  weeping. 

"  Dearest  mother,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  am  so  sorry  for  you ! 
If  you  would  only  tell  me  —  " 

"  Ah  Greif  —  my  son  —  if  I  thought  you  loved  me  —  a  little  — 
I  should  be  less  unhappy ! " 

"But  I  do.  Oh,  forgive  me,  if  I  have  never  shown  you  that 
I  do !  "  He  was  in  great  distress,  for  he  was  really  moved,  and 
a  great  wave  of  repentance  for  all  his  past  coldness  suddenly 
overwhelmed  his  conscience. 

"If  it  were  only  true  !  "  sobbed  the  poor  lady.  "  But  it  is  all 
my  fault  —  oh,  Greif,  Greif  —  my  boy  —  promise  that  you  will 
not  forsake  me,  whatever  happens  to  me !  " 

"  Indeed,  I  promise,"  answered  Greif  in  great  surprise.  "  But 
what  can  happen  ?  What  is  it  that  you  fear,  mother  ?  " 


60  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  foolish,"  she  replied  with  a  hysterical  attempt 
at  a  laugh.  "  Perhaps  it  is  nothing,  after  all." 

Her  tears  burst  out  afresh.  Greif  attempted  in  vain  to  soothe 
her,  calling  her  by  endearing  names  he  had  never  used  to  her 
before,  and  feeling  vaguely  surprised  at  the  expressions  of  affec 
tion  that  fell  from  his  lips.  All  at  once,  with  a  passionate 
movement,  she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 
Then,  pushing  him  aside,  she  rose  quickly  and  fled  to  the  next 
room  before  he  could  regain  his  feet. 

For  some  moments  he  stood  looking  at  the  closed  door.  Then 
his  instinct  told  him  that  she  would  not  return,  and  he  slowly 
left  the  room,  pondering  deeply  on  what  he  had  seen  and  heard. 

The  next  time  they  met  she  made  no  reference  to  what  had 
passed,  and  Greif's  natural  delicacy  warned  him  not  to  approach 
the  subject.  Had  there  been  such  previous  intimacy  between 
the  two  as  might  be  expected  to  exist  between  mother  and  son, 
an  explanation  could  scarcely  have  been  avoided.  As  it  was, 
however,  both  felt  that  it  was  better  to  leave  the  matter  alone. 
The  bond  between  them  was  stronger  than  before,  and  that  was 
enough  for  Clara.  She  experienced  a  sense  of  comfort  in  Greif's 
mere  existence  which  somewhat  lightened  the  intolerable  bur 
then  of  her  secret.  As  for  Greif  himself,  the  situation  appeared 
to  him  more  mysterious  than  ever,  and  the  air  of  the  house 
more  oppressive.  Tt  seemed  to  him  that  every  one  was  watch 
ing  every  one  else,  and  that  at  the  same  time  each  member  of 
the  household  was  concealing  something  from  the  others.  He 
felt  that  it  would  be  a  relief  to  return  to  the  thoughtless  life  of 
the  University,  even  at  the  expense  of  a  separation  from  Hilda. 

Hilda  had  not  failed  to  notice  what  was  so  apparent  to  every 
one  else,  and  had  asked  her  mother  questions  concerning  the 
evident  depression  that  reigned  in  the  household.  But  the  good 
baroness  had  only  answered  that,  whatever  might  be  the  matter, 
it  was  no  concern  of  Hilda's  nor  of  her  own ;  and  that  when 
disagreeable  things  occurred  in  other  people's  houses  it  was 
a  duty  not  to  see  them.  Hilda's  ideas  about  ill  health  were 
exceedingly  vague,  and  she  contented  herself  with  supposing 
that  Fran  von  Greifenstein  was  ill,  and  that  sick  persons  proba 
bly  always  behaved  as  she  did.  At  last  the  time  came  for 
Greif's  departure. 

The  sense  of  impending  evil  was  in  some  measure  account 
able  for  the  unusual  emotion  exhibited  at  the  parting.  He  had 


GREIF  ENSTEIN.  61 

never  taken  leave  of  his  mother  so  affectionately  before,  nor 
had  he  before  seen  the  tears  start  into  her  eyes  as  she  kissed 
him  and  said  good-bye.  Never  before  had  the  grip  of  his 
father's  hand  seemed  to  convey  so  much  of  sympathy,  nor  did 
he  remember  that  his  own  voice  had  ever  at  other  times  trem 
bled  as  though  it  were  sticking  in  his  throat.  Even  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron  was  a  little  moved  and  pressed  his  hand  warmly 
when  he  kissed  her,  though  she  said  nothing.  Hilda  was  very 
silent,  and  never  took  her  eyes  from  him.  He  had  bidden  her 
farewell  befoi'e  taking  leave  of  the  rest,  at  their  old  haunt  by 
the  Hunger-Thurm.  There  had  not  been  many  words,  and 
there  had  been  no  tears,  but  it  had  been  nevertheless  the  saddest 
parting  Greif  ever  remembered.  The  day  was  cloudy  and  a 
soft  wind  was  making  melancholy  music  among  the  grand  old 
trees.  Their  own  voices  had  sounded  discordant  and  out  of 
tune,  and  the  words  that  might  have  expressed  what  they  felt 
would  not  be  found,  and  perhaps  were  not  needed. 

But  when  the  last  minute  was  come  the  whole  party  went  out 
together  to  the  gate  where  the  carriage  was  standing.  Greif 
found  himself  with  Hilda,  separated  for  a  moment  from  the 
rest.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Something  evil  is  going  to  happen  to  you,  Greif,"  she  said. 
There  was  something  in  the  accents  that  chilled  him,  but  he 
tried  to  smile. 

"  I  hope  not,  sweetheart,"  he  answered. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Hilda  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  "  I 
cannot  tell  why — only,  remember,  whatever  happens  —  it  will 
be  something  terrible  —  I  shall  always  love  you  —  always, 
always." 

The  others  came  up,  and  her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  as  she 
repeated  the  last  word.  Greif  looked  anxiously  into  her  face, 
and  saw  that  she  was  pale,  and  that  her  flashing  blue  eyes  were 
veiled  and  dim.  He  was  startled,  for  he  had  never  seen  such  a 
change  in  her  before.  But  there  was  no  time  for  words.  He 
whispered  a  loving  answer,  but  she  seemed  not  to  hear  his 
words  as  she  stood  against  the  huge  rough  masonry  of  the  gate, 
gazing  down  the  drive  in  the  direction  of  the  Hunger-Thurm. 
As  he  was  driven  rapidly  away,  he  looked  back  and  waved  his 
hat.  The  others  had  stepped  forward  upon  the  pavement  on 
one  side  of  the  gate,  but  Hilda  had  not  moved.  Then  as  the 
turn  of  the  road  was  about  to  hide  the  castle  from  view,  he  saw 


62  GREIFENSTEIN. 

her  cover  her  face  with  both  her  hands  and  turn  back  into  the 
shadow  of  the  deep  gateway. 

Greif  settled  himself  in  his  comfortable  seat,  wondering  what 
it  all  meant.  It  was  very  strange  that  Hilda  should  have  so 
suddenly  and  so  forcibly  expressed  the  same  idea  that  had  agi 
tated  his  mother  a  few  days  earlier.  It  was  impossible  that 
they  could  have  talked  together,  or  that  they  could  be  thinking 
of  the  same  tiling.  There  was  no  sympathy  between  them,  and 
besides,  if  Hilda  had  learned  anything  from  Frau  von  Greifen- 
stein  which  Greif  did  not  know,  she  would  certainly  have  told 
him  of  it,  especially  as  this  impending  catastrophe  threatened 
him  as  well  as  his  mother.  He  was  too  firmly  opposed  to  all 
sorts  of  superstition  to  believe  that  Hilda  had  received  any 
supernatural  warning  of  an  event  about  to  occur.  But  for  the 
conversation  that  had  taken  place  with  his  mother,  he  would 
unhesitatingly  have  told  himself  that  Hilda  was  yielding  to  a 
foolish  presentiment  raised  by  the  sorrow  of  parting.  Persons 
in  love  are  very  apt  to  fancy  each  separation  the  last,  and  to 
imagine  some  dreadful  disaster  to  be  in  store  for  the  object  of 
their  affections.  He  flattered  himself  that  his  own  common 
sense  was  too  strong  to  be  shaken  by  such  absurdities,  but  he 
owned  that  the  sensation  was  a  natural  one.  Without  giving 
way  to  presentiments  he  nevertheless  always  felt  that  something 
might  happen  to  Hilda  before  his  return,  and  it  was  not  strange 
that  she  should  feel  the  same  anxiety  in  regard  to  him.  The 
impulsive  expression  she  had  given  to  her  fear  was  not  in  itself 
surprising,  and  if  she  had  turned  pale  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  it  was  perhaps  because  her  heart  was  really  waking  to  some 
thing  stronger  than  that  even,  emotionless  affection  she  had 
hitherto  bestowed  upon  him. 

There  was  a  similarity,  however,  between  his  mother's  words 
and  Hilda's,  which  was  not  so  easily  explained,  and  the  coinci 
dence  was  oddly  in  harmony  with  the  oppressive  constraint  that 
had  reigned  at  Greifenstein  during  the  vacation.  Greif  could 
not  help  thinking  very  seriously  of  it  all,  as  he  drove  rapidly 
through  the  forest  to  the  railway  station ;  so  seriously  indeed, 
that  he  at  last  shook  himself  with  a  movement  of  impatience, 
said  to  himself  that  he  was  growing  superstitious  as  a  girl,  and 
lit  a  cigar  with  the  strong  determination  not  to  give  way  to  such 
nonsense. 

Smoking  did  not  help  him,  nor  the  prospect  of  meeting  a 


GREIFENSTEIN.  63 

fellow-student  or  two  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon.  He  tried 
to  think  of  the  life  that  was  before  him  at  the  University,  of 
the  serious  work  he  must  do,  of  the  opening  festival  of  all  the 
united  Korps  at  the  beginning  of  the  term,  of  his  own  responsi 
bilities  as  the  head  of  the  association  to  which  he  belonged, 
of  the  pleasant  hours  he  would  spend  in  discussing  with  youth 
ful  shallowness  the  deepest  subjects  that  can  occupy  the  human 
mind,  deciding,  between  a  draft  of  brown  ale  and  a  whiff  of 
tobacco,  that  Schopenhauer  was  right  in  one  point,  and  that 
Kant  was  wrong  in  another.  But,  for  the  present,  at  least, 
none  of  those  things  could  by  mere  anticipation  distract  his 
thoughts  from  the  matter  which  occupied  them. 

All  through  the  long  drive,  Hilda's  face  was  before  him  and 
her  voice  was  in  his  ear,  repeating  her  strange  warning.  She 
had  said  that  she  should  always  love  him.  His  mother  had 
implored  him  not  to  forsake  her  in  her  trouble,  whatever  it 
might  be.  At  the  same  time,  his  father  was  in  the  greatest 
anxiety  concerning  Rieseneck's  movements.  Could  there  be 
any  connexion  between  that  affair  and  the  conduct  of  the  two 
women?  Again  his  common  sense  rose  up  with  an  energetic 
protest,  and  displayed  to  him  all  the  absurdity  of  the  hypothe 
sis.  Could  Rieseneck's  possible  return  affect  his  mother  more 
than  his  father?  Could  that  doubtful  event  suffice  to  rouse 
Hilda's  fears  to  such  a  pitch?  If  the  man  came  back,  he  would 
come  as  a  suppliant,  entreating  to  be  received  once,  at  least, 
on  tolerance.  He  would  come  as  a  penitent  prodigal  might, 
to  get  a  word  of  compassion  from  his  brother,  perhaps  to 
borrow  money.  He  could  do  no  harm  to  any  one,  beyond  the 
moral  shame  he  brought  upon  his  relatives  by  prolonging  his 
wretched  existence.  He  was  certainly  not  a  particularly  dan 
gerous  person  to  Greif  himself,  and  Hilda's  warning  had  been 
essentially  personal,  having  no  reference  to  any  one  else.  He 
could  not  understand  it,  and  grew  impatient  again,  realising 
how  deeply  he  had  been  impressed.  The  forest  looked  unusually 
gloomy,  and  added  by  its  melancholy  solemnity  to  the  depres 
sion  of  his  spirits.  He  was  glad  when  he  saw  through  the 
trees  the  smart  wooden  railway  station  with  its  coloured  signals, 
its  metal  roof,  and  its  air  of  animation.  He  could  not  help 
thinking  that  the  effect  was  something  like  that  once  produced 
upon  him  when  he  had  come  back  to  the  University  town 
from  the  funeral  of  an  eminent  person  whom  he  had  never  seen. 


64  GREIFENSTEIN. 

He  had  been  obliged  to  attend  the  burial  with  the  whole  body 
of  the  students,  and  had  stood  more  than  an  hour  in  the  church 
yard  before  he  could  get  away.  He  remembered  how  unusu 
ally  bright  and  lively  the  town  had  appeared  to  him  by  contrast 
when  he  returned.  Even  the  thought  of  Hilda  could  not  now 
make  the  recollection  of  his  home  a  pleasant  one,  for  Hilda 
herself  was  intimately  connected,  by  her  last  words,  with  the 
whole  impression  of  funereal  gloominess  from  which  the  busy 
railway  station  furnished  him  with  the  means  of  escape. 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  65 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  system  of  student  life  in  Germany  with  its  duelling,  its 
associations  into  Korps,  its  festivals,  and  its  rabid  tenacity  to 
tradition,  has  frequently  been  pronounced  ridiculous  by  Euro 
pean  and  American  writers,  though  it  does  not  appear  that 
those  who  laugh  at  it  have  entered  into  Korps  life  themselves, 
even  when  they  have  resided  during  a  considerable  time  at  a 
German  University.  There  is,  however,  much  to  be  said  in 
favour  of  its  existence  in  the  only  country  where  it  has  taken 
root  as  a  permanent  institution;  and  since  it  is  necessary  to 
follow  Greif 's  history  from  the  time  when  he  was  still  a  student, 
some  explanation  of  a  matter  generally  little  understood  may 
not  be  out  of  place  at  this  point. 

Every  one  knows  that  a  German  University  has  no  resem 
blance,  even  in  principle,  with  what  English-speaking  people 
generally  understand  by  the  word  University.  The  students 
do  not  live  in  communities,  nor  in  any  set  of  buildings  appro 
priated  for  their  dwelling.  The  University,  so  far  as  its  habi 
tation  is  concerned,  means  only  the  lecture-rooms.  Instructors 
and  pupils  live  where  they  please  and  as  they  please,  according 
to  their  individual  fortune  or  pleasure.  The  students  are 
differently  situated  from  other  members  of  society  in  one 
respect.  They  are  not  amenable  to  the  police  for  any  ordinary 
offence,  but  in  such  cases  are  brought  before  the  University 
authorities,  and  are  liable  to  be  confined  in  the  University 
prison,  attending  the  lectures  belonging  to  their  course,  during 
the  period  of  their  detention,  for  which  purpose  they  are  let  out 
and  shut  up  again  at  stated  hours.  This  corresponds  to  some 
extent  with  the  English  system  of  "gating." 

A  very  large  body  of  young  men,  of  various  ages,  find  them 
selves  almost  entirely  their  own  masters,  at  an  age  when  the 
English  undergraduate  is  bound  to  be  at  home  at  twelve  o'clock, 
to  attend  chapel  and  hall  dinners,  besides  fulfilling  the  obliga 
tions  imposed  by  a  regular  course  of  study.  They  live  in  lodg- 


66  GREIFENSTEIN. 

ings,  free  of  any  supervision  whatever,  they  eat  where  and  when 
they  please,  if  they  do  not  choose  to  hear  lectures  there  is  no 
one  to  oblige  them  to  do  so,  for  they  are  supposed  to  possess 
enough  common  sense  to  know  that  the  loss  is  theirs  if  they 
fail  at  their  examinations.  It  is  natural  that  under  these  cir 
cumstances  they  should  form  associations  among  themselves. 
In  every  University  there  will  be  a  certain  number  of  students 
from  each  of  the  country's  principal  provinces.  Fellow-country 
men  will  generally  be  drawn  together  when  they  are  forced  to 
live  under  similar  conditions  in  one  place.  To  this  instinct 
may  be  traced  the  origin  of  Korps,  and,  generally,  of  all  asso 
ciations  that  wear  colours,  except  the  so-called  Teutonia,  which 
is  probably  the  oldest  of  all,  and  which  was  originally  apolitical 
institution  having  for  its  object  the  promotion  of  liberal  ideas 
together  with  the  unity  of  Germany.  There  are  Korps  of  the 
same  name,  but  the  two  are  always  quite  distinct  and  their 
colours  are  generally  different. 

There  are  three  classes  of  associations.  The  Burschen- 
schaften,  or  fellowships,  the  Landsmannschaften,  or  fellow- 
countrymen's  unions,  and  the  Korps.  The  latter  word  is 
French,  and  was  formerly  spelt  "  Corps  " ;  as  no  better  word 
could  be  found,  or  introduced,  the  German  initial  letter  is  used 
to  distinguish  the  meaning  when  used  in  this  sense.  Besides 
these  three  classes  of  acknowledged  associations,  all  wearing 
colours,  and  recognised  by  the  University,  there  are  usually  a 
number  of  subordinate  ones,  termed  contemptuously  "  Blasen," 
which  may  be  translated  "  bubbles,"  a  designation  given  on 
account  of  their  supposed  instability. 

Although  admission  to  these  unions  is  generally,  and  probably 
always,  obtained  by  ballot,  they  are  not  clubs  in  any  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word.  Each  has  a  habitation  or  lodge,  called  a 
Kneipe,  or  drinking-hall,  and  a  fencing-room,  or  a  share  in  the 
use  of  one,  but  there  is  no  set  of  apartments  corresponding  to 
a  club,  nor  intended  for  the  same  manifold  purposes.  The 
organisation  and  object  of  the  union  require  no  such  conven 
iences. 

The  Korps  rank  highest  in  estimation  and  are  generally 
the  most  exclusive.  In  a  country  where  caste  prejudice  has 
attained  to  such  gigantic  proportions  as  it  has  in  Germany, 
its  effects  are  felt  very  early  in  life ;  and  in  Universities  where 
every  advantage  of  education  is  placed  within  easy  reach  of  the 


GREIFENSTEIN.  67 

very  poorest,  a  course  of  lectures  for  a  term  often  costing  but 
one  pound  sterling,  it  is  impossible  that  there  should  not  be 
circles  formed,  in  a  regular  scale,  by  young  men  whose  fortunes 
are  more  or  less  alike.  Upon  these  social  and  financial  distinc 
tions  the  Korps  have  grown  to  be  what  they  are. 

Every  Korps  has  three  orders  of  members,  and  three  regular 
officers,  to  each  of  whom  is  assigned  one  department  in  the 
management  of  the  associations.  The  orders  consist  of  two 
regular  and  one  irregular.  The  lowest  and  least  important, 
is  considered  irregular,  and  those  who  are  not  admitted  further 
have  no  claim  to  anything  but  a  place  in  the  drinking-hall,  and 
the  protection  of  the  regular  Korps.  They  may  be  men  of  any 
age,  but  are  generally  students  who  are  prevented  from  fighting 
by  some  physical  defect,  or  by  the  serious  objection  of  their 
parents,  without  whose  consent  no  one  is  supposed  to  be 
admitted  to  the  full  fellowship  of  the  union. 

The  second  order  consists  of  novices,  who  are  designated 
by  the  name  of  "foxes."  The  appellation  is  probably  derived 
from  the  custom  of  playing  a  kind  of  game,  at  the  opening  of 
the  term,  which  is  called  the  fox-hunt,  and  in  which  the  novices, 
riding  astride  of  chairs,  are  made  to  run  the  gauntlet  through 
the  "fellows"  who  are  armed  with  blackened  corks,  and  who, 
without  moving  from  their  places,  attempt  to  smudge  the  faces 
of  the  youngsters  as  they  hop  past.  These  "  foxes  "  are  young 
students  who  have  just  joined,  and  who  are  not  admitted  to 
the  rank  of  fellows  until  they  have  fought  a  certain  number 
of  times.  They  are  raised  to  the  higher  dignity  after  a  ballot, 
at  which  they  are  not  present,  and  the  term  of  probation  gener 
ally  lasts  six  months,  or  one  term. 

The  fellows,  or  Burschen,  are  full-fledged  Korps  students, 
eligible  to  become  officers.  The  officers  are  three,  and  are 
called  respectively  the  first,  second  and  third,  "in  charge." 
The  first  is  the  chief,  who  presides  at  formal  meetings  and  in 
the  drinking-hall,  where  the  Korps  assembles  officially  on  two 
evenings  of  the  week.  He  also  represents  the  Korps  at  the 
weekly  meetings  of  all  the  representatives.  The  second  in 
charge  manages  all  affairs  relative  to  fighting,  and  is  personally 
responsible  to  the  association  for  all  formalities  relating  to  the 
duels  of  its  members.  If  any  fellow,  or  novice,  has  challenged, 
or  been  challenged  by,  any  one  else,  he  must  immediately 
report  the  affair  to  the  second  in  charge,  who  arranges  the 


68  GREIFENSTEIN. 

meeting  for  him,  and  warns  him,  at  least  twelve  hours  before 
hand,  of  the  time  appointed.  The  third  in  charge  is  secretary 
and  treasurer ;  he  keeps  the  minutes  of  all  meetings,  collects 
the  dues  from  the  members,  pays  the  bills,  and  is  responsible 
for  the  financial  department  and  correspondence. 

In  well-conducted  Korps,  and  there  are  many  such,  the  presi 
dent  considers  himself  morally  bound  to  see  that  all  the 
members  attend  their  lectures  regularly.  That  the  associations 
are  not  generally  mere  idle,  riotous  bands  of  students,  is 
sufficiently  shown  by  the  fact  that  almost  every  prominent 
man  in  German  public  life  has  belonged  to  one  of  them,  from 
the  great  chancellor  downwards.  Generally  speaking,  too, 
each  novice  is  considered  to  be  personally  under  the  charge  of 
one  of  the  fellows,  whose  duty  it  is  to  keep  him  out  of  trouble 
and  to  see  that  he  is  not  idle.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  system 
of  organisation  is  good,  and  that  in  reality  it  has  a  strong 
military  element,  like  most  organisations  which  find  favour 
in  Germany. 

But  if  it  is  military  it  is  also  militant,  and  it  is  the  fact  that 
fighting  is  one  of  its  chief  objects,  which  has  caused  it  to  be  so 
much  abused  by  foreigners.  It  is  necessary  in  the  first  place  to 
understand  the  conditions  of  the  sanguinary  battles  between  the 
Korps,  and  the  points  by  which  they  are  distinguished  from  the 
more  serious  affairs  which  are  occasionally  settled  by  appeal  to 
arms. 

The  ordinary  student's  duel  is  not  a  dangerous  affair,  though 
it  is  often  far  more  serious  than  is  commonly  supposed.  The 
weapon  used  is  a  long,  light  rapier,  square  at  the  point,  two- 
edged  and  sharpened  like  a  razor  down  the  whole  length  of  the 
front,  and  to  about  nine  inches  from  the  point  at  the  back. 
The  hilt  is  a  roomy  basket  of  iron,  though  in  some  Universities 
a  bell-hilted  sword  is  used,  and  in  that  case  the  guard  is  similar 
to  the  first  position  in  sabre  fencing  or  single  stick.  The  blade 
is  very  pliable  and  not  highly  tempered,  so  that  in  unskilful 
hands  it  is  apt  to  bend  and  become  useless. 

The  law  requires  that  the  combatants  should  both  wear  an 
iron  protection  over  the  eyes,  lest  the  loss  of  sight  should  render 
the  student  useless  for  military  service.  To  protect  life  also,  a 
heavy  silk  scarf  bandage  is  placed  round  the  throat,  completely 
protecting  the  jugular  vein  and  the  carotid  artery.  The  right 
arm,  which  in  this  peculiar  fencing  is  used  to  parry  the  cut  in 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  69 

tierce,  is  also  protected  by  bandages,  and  the  body  is  covered 
by  a  leathern  cuirass,  heavily  padded,  from  the  middle  of  the 
breast  to  the  knees.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  whole  head,  except 
ing  the  eyes,  is  exposed,  as  well  as  the  chest  and  shoulders. 
Thrusting  is  forbidden  as  well  as  the  cut  in  second,  below 
guard,  but  the  latter  is  permitted  when  either  of  the  combatants 
is  left-handed,  owing  to  the  difference  of  the  position. 

Novices'  duels  consist  generally  of  fifteen  rounds,  the  first 
being  merely  a  formal  salute.  The  fellows  fight  during  fifteen 
minutes,  unless  one  of  them  is  severely  wounded  before  the  end 
of  the  time.  An  umpire  has  a  stop-watch  in  his  hand,  and  only 
the  exact  time  of  actual  fencing  is  reckoned,  which  is  rather  a 
delicate  and  troublesome  matter.  Speaking  is  not  allowed.  If 
both  combatants  are  good  fencers  and  cautious  it  sometimes 
happens  that  neither  is  touched,  but  as  many  as  thirty  slight 
wounds  are  occasionally  inflicted  on  both  sides.  A  surgeon  is 
always  present  and  decides  when  a  wound  is  too  severe  to  allow 
of  further  fighting.  This  usually  occurs  when  a  large  artery  is 
cut,  or  a  splinter  raised  upon  a  bone. 

Meetings  are  generally  arranged  for  novices,  as  soon  as  they 
have  learned  to  handle  the  rapier,  whether  they  have  had  any 
quarrel  or  not,  and  such  encounters  rarely  lead  to  any  result 
worth  mentioning.  The  intention  is  to  accustom  the  student 
to  fighting  for  its  own  sake,  and  he  must  submit  to  the  condi 
tions  or  leave  the  Korps  with  ignominy.  He  learns  to  fence 
with  coolness  and  judgment,  in  a  way  that  could  never  be 
leai'ned  on  the  fencing  ground  with  masks  and  blunted  weapons, 
and  he  acquires  from  the  first  the  habit  of  facing  an  armed 
man  with  little  but  his  own  blade  to  protect  him. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  duelling  is  a  social  institution  in 
Germany.  It  is  not  necessary  here  to  enter  into  a  discussion  of 
the  merits  of  the  system ;  it  is  enough  to  recall  the  late  Em 
peror's  speech  in  regard  to  it,  in  which  he  declared  that  he 
would  punish  any  officer  who  fought  a  duel,  but  would  dismiss 
from  the  army  any  one  who  refused  to  do  so.  The  first  clause 
of  this  apparent  paradox  restrains  the  practice  from  becoming 
an  abuse  or  a  general  evil ;  the  second  imposes  it  as  a  necessity 
in  serious  cases.  The  penalty  consists  in  a  longer  or  shorter 
period  of  arrest,  fixed  within  certain  limits,  and  in  case  of  the 
death  of  one  of  the  combatants  the  survivor  is  confined  in  a 
fortress  for  three  years,  provided  that  the  duel  has  taken  place 


70  GREIFENSTEHSr. 

with  the  consent  of  the  superior  officers  of  the  regiment  sitting 
officially  as  a  council  of  honour,  and  that  the  encounter  has 
been  conducted  in  accordance  with  the  requirements  of  the  law. 
Any  informality  is  most  severely  visited.  The  regimental  coun 
cil  takes  charge  of  the  officer's  reputation,  and  if  it  declares  that 
there  need  be  no  meeting,  honour  is  satisfied.  In  private  life 
any  individual  may  appeal  to  the  decision  of  a  court  of  honour 
chosen  by  himself  and  his  adversary,  and  such  decisions  are 
considered  final.  But  if  any  person  refuses  either  to  fight  or  to 
appeal  to  such  arbitration,  he  is  mercilessly  excluded  from  all 
polite  society  •wherever  the  facts  are  known. 

The  customs  of  the  country  being  of  this  nature,  the  existence 
of  fighting  associations  among  students  can  be  both  explained 
and  defended.  That  some  other  nations  consider  the  practice 
of  duelling  as  altogether  barbarous  and  antiquated,  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  case  in  hand.  An  individual  cannot  change  the 
conditions  of  the  society  in  which  he  is  obliged  to  live,  and  must 
either  conform  to  them  or  be  excluded  from  intercourse  with 
his  fellows.  To  learn  to  fight  is,  in  Germany,  as  necessary  as 
learning  to  eat  decently  is  in  England,  and  the  schools  of  fight 
ing  are  the  Korps  and  other  University  unions.  As  a  direct 
consequence,  they  are  also  schools  of  life,  and  in  some  degree  of 
etiquette.  A  man  learns  there  exactly  what  sort  of  language  is 
courteous,  what  words  may  be  spoken  without  giving  offence, 
and  in  what  an  insult  really  consists.  By  this  means  a  vast 
amount  of  trouble  is  saved  for  society,  and  a  uniform  standard 
of  behaviour  is  secured  which  is  universally  respected  and 
adhered  to  by  all  who  call  themselves  gentlemen.  The  council 
of  the  Korps  represents  the  council  of  the  regiment,  or  the  social 
court  of  honour  appealed  to  by  civilians.  The  conversation  of 
the  members  with  each  other,  though  familiar  in  the  extreme, 
is  regulated  by  rigid  rules.  The  slightest  approach  to  dis 
courtesy  between  members  of  the  same  Korps  must  be  followed 
by  an  instant  apology,  the  refusal  of  which  entails  the  immedi 
ate  ejection  of  the  offender  with  ignominy,  and  what  is  more, 
the  announcement  of  the  fact  by  circular  letter  within  the 
month  to  every  Korps  student  in  every  one  of  the  numerous 
Universities  of  the  empire.  A  dishonourable  action  of  any 
kind  is  visited  in  the  same  way.  The  publicity  of  such  a 
scandal  is  enormous.  Seven  or  eight  thousand  young  men  are 


GBEIFENSTEIX.  71 

simultaneously  informed  that  one  of  their  number  is  disgraced, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  year  all  those  older  men  who  have  been 
Korps  students  in  their  youth,  are  also  informed  of  the  fact. 
This  amounts  to  warning  some  thirty  or  fourty  thousand  gentle 
men,  chiefly  in  the  higher  ranks  of  society,  against  an  individual, 
who,  in  one  circumstance  or  another,  is  almost  certain  to  be 
brought  into  contact  with  some  of  them.  Such  an  institution 
cannot  be  laughed  at,  and  its  censure  is  no  joke. 

But  even  a  Korps  student's  life  is  not  made  up  merely  of 
fighting  and  study.  There  is  a  very  jovial  side  to  it,  and  if  its 
jollity  is  sometimes  made  the  subject  of  reproach  this  is  due  to 
the  fact  that  the  few  thoroughly  lazy  students  are  of  necessity 
the  very  ones  who  are  most  seen.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  beer 
plays  a  considerable  part  in  the  life  of  German  students.  It  is 
also  an  important  element  in  the  existence  of  the  nation.  Ger 
man  beer,  however,  is  not  English  ale,  any  more  than  it  is  to  be 
confounded  with  the  nauseous  concoctions  sold  under  its  name 
in  other  countries.  German  beer  is  protected  by  law,  and  un- 
oppressed  by  taxation.  To  adulterate  it  is  a  crime,  an  attempt 
to  tax  it  would  bring  about  a  convulsion  of  the  empire.  Its 
use,  in  quantities  that  amaze  the  understanding,  does  not  appear 
to  have  made  Germans  cowards  in  war,  nor  laggards  in  com 
merce  ;  still  less  does  it  seem  to  have  stupefied  the  national 
intellect,  or  dulled  the  Teutonic  keenness  in  the  race  of  nations. 
The  first  military  power  in  the  world  drinks  as  much  beer  as 
all  the  rest  of  the  universe  together,  and  probably  a  little  more. 
The  commercial  nation  that  undersells  Englishmen  in  England, 
Frenchmen  in  France,  Italians  in  Italy  and  Turks  in  Turkey, 
consumes  more  malt  liquor  than  they  drink  of  all  other  liquors. 
The  intellectual  race  that  has  produced  Kant,  Goethe,  and 
Helmholtz,  Bismarck,  Moltke,  Mommsen,  and  Richard  Wagner 
in  a  century,  swallows  Homeric  draughts  of  beer  at  breakfast, 
dinner  and  supper.  That  other  nations  do  not  follow  their 
example,  and  laugh  at  their  potations  is  of  little  consequence. 
Even  if  the  Germans  do  not  to  some  extent  owe  their  national 
characteristics  to  their  national  drink,  it  cannot  be  asserted 
with  any  show  of  reason  that  beer  has  swamped  their  intelli 
gence,  damped  their  military  ardour  or  drowned  their  com 
mercial  genius.  Beer  is  the  natural  irrigator  of  conservative 
principles  and  intellectual  progress.  A  little  of  it  is  good,  much 


72  GREIFENSTEIN. 

is  better,  and  too  much  of  it  can  never  produce  delirium  tre- 
rnens.  Can  more  be  said  of  any  potable  concoction  manufac 
tured  by  humanity  for  its  daily  use  ? 

The  Korps  student  drinks  beer,  therefore,  and  as  though  he 
felt  a  sort  of  religious  reverence  for  the  drink  of  his  fathers,  he 
has  invented  laws  and  rules  for  the  ceremony,  from  which  no 
departure  is  allowable.  Every  meeting  of  the  Korps  begins  and 
ends  with  a  "  Salamander."  At  the  president's  word  the  glasses 
or  stone  jugs  are  moved  rhythmically  upon  the  oaken  board. 
Another  word  of  command,  and  each  student  empties  his  beaker. 
Then  the  vessels  are  rattled  on  the  table,  while  he  slowly  counts 
three,  with  the  precision  of  a  military  drum,  then  struck  sharply 
again  three  times,  so  that  they  touch  the  table  all  together,  and 
the  meeting  is  opened  or  closed,  as  the  case  may  be.  The  same 
ceremony  is  performed  when  the  health  of  any  one  is  drunk  by 
the  whole  Korps.  The  principle  is  that  on  peaceful  occasions 
the  drinking-cup  takes  the  place  of  the  rapier,  and  is  used  for 
saluting  and  for  combat,  as  the  sword  is  used  in  the  duel.  To 
give  as  much  as  is  received  is  the  object  of  both.  As  much  as 
one  student  drinks  to  another's  health,  so  much  must  the  others 
drink  in  return.  If  two  fall  out  in  a  discussion,  the  one  may 
challenge  the  other  to  a  beer  duel.  The  weapons  are  full 
glasses,  there  is  an  umpire  who  gives  the  word,  and  he  who 
empties  his  glass  the  first  is  the  conqueror.  The  president  can 
order  any  one  to  drink  a  certain  quantity  pro  pcena,  as  a  penalty 
for  breaking  a  known  rule,  and  the  fellows  have  the  same  privi 
lege  in  regard  to  the  novices. 

There  is  another  element,  and  a  very  important  one,  in  the 
conduct  of  the  jovial  meetings.  Singing  is  a  traditional  and 
indispensable  business  at  every  regular  Kneipe.  Every  student 
has  a  standard  song-book  at  his  place,  containing  both  the  words 
and  music.  As  singing  at  sight  is  taught  in  every  common 
school  throughout  the  country,  the  result  is  not  so  cacophonous 
as  might  be  expected.  The  voices  are  young,  fresh  and  manly, 
the  tunes  full  of  life  and  of  an  easy  nature,  the  verses  simple 
and  often  grand,  for  they  are  selected  from  the  writings  of  cele 
brated  poets.  The  spirit  of  the  poetry  is  generally  patriotic  or 
fraternal,  always  essentially  national.  The  whole  effect  is  fine 
and  elevating,  and  those  who  have  sat  as  young  men  at  the  table 
of  a  numerous  Korps  do  not  easily  forget  the  sensations  evoked 
by  the  strains  in  which  they  have  joined.  Song  holds  a  large 


GEETFENSTEIN.  73 

place  in  German  life,  and  an  essentially  good  one.  As  a  means 
of  strengthening  popular  patriotism  no  one  has  ever  denied  its 
efficacy,  and  as  a  mere  pastime  it  is  probably  the  most  pacific 
and  harmless  that  could  be  named.  It  may  even  be  believed 
that  the  capacity  and  willingness  among  young  men  to  amuse 
themselves  with  chorus  singing  indicates  to  some  extent  a  na 
tional  love  of  law  and  order.  Italians  are  soloists,  in  music  and 
in  principles.  Germans  are  born  chorus  singers,  and  their  great 
men  do  not  sing  themselves,  but  conduct  the  singing  of  others. 
The  University  of  which  Greif  was  a  student,  and  which  shall 
be  called  for  convenience  Schwarzburg,  was  one  of  the  oldest  in 
the  country.  The  town  in  which  it  was  situated  possessed  in  a 
high  degree  the  associations  and  the  architectural  features  which 
throw  a  mediaeval  shadow  over  many  northern  cities,  causing 
even  the  encroaching  paint-brush  of  modern  progress  to  move 
in  old-fashioned  lines  of  subdued  colour.  In  northern  lands 
antiquity  is  not  associated  with  the  presence  of  dirt,  as  it  is  in 
the  south.  Nuremberg  does  not  look  modern  because  its  streets 
are  clean  and  there  are  no  beggars,  nor  does  the  ancient  seat  of 
the  Teutonic  Knights  at  Marienburg  look  like  a  hotel  because 
its  lofty  corridors  and  graceful  halls,  with  their  cross  vaults 
springing  from  central  columns,  are  carefully  swept  and  free 
from  dust.  It  would  be  interesting  to  examine  the  causes  which 
produce  this  odd  artistic  phenomenon.  In  Italy  the  process  of 
cleansing  is  destroying  altogether  the  associations  of  antiquity 
and  the  artistic  beauty  which  once  charmed  the  traveller.  Hei 
delberg,  Nuremberg,  and  most  places  in  Germany  seem  to  have 
gained  rather  than  lost  in  outward  appearance  by  the  advance 
of  civilisation.  Possibly,  the  Germans  of  to-day  resemble  their 
ancestors  of  the  fourteenth  century  more  closely  than  a  modern 
Florentine  resembles  Lorenzo  De'  Medici.  Possibly,  in  Germany 
such  restorations  as  are  necessary  are  executed  with  a  keener 
perception  of  beauty  in  the  model.  Possibly,  too,  German  con 
servatism,  Gothic,  thoughtful,  stern,  expresses  itself  in  all  it 
does ;  even  as  the  Italian's  queer  love  of  change  and  fetish  wor 
ship  of  what,  in  other  lands,  was  called  progress  thirty  years  ago, 
shows  itself  in  all  his  visible  works.  Architecture  exhibits  a 
nation's  feeling  far  more  exactly  than  literature  or  any  other 
branch  of  art  or  science.  People  may,  or  may  not,  read  the 
books  that  fill  the  market,  and  nobody  cares  whether  they  do 
or  not  except  the  author  and  the  publisher.  But  people  must 


74  GREIFENSTEIN. 

live  in  houses  of  some  sort,  and,  if  they  are  rich  enough  to 
choose,  they  will  not  live  in  houses  they  do  not  like,  nor  worship 
in  temples  of  which  the  architecture  irritates  their  nerves.  Now 
architects  are  placed  in  the  same  position  towards  the  house 
builders  of  the  nation,  in  which  authors  stand  towards  the  read 
ing  public.  If  people  are  conservative,  and  like  old-fashioned 
buildings,  the  architect  must  satisfy  his  customer's  love  of 
tradition,  just  as  the  professional  writer  must  write  what  is 
wanted,  or  starve.  The  difference  in  the  result  is  that  houses 
last  some  time  whereas  books  do  not. 

Greif  was  deeply  attached  to  the  University  town.  He  had 
spent  many  happy  hours  within  its  walls,  and  had  passed  through 
many  exciting  moments  of  his  young  life  amidst  its  high,  narrow 
streets  and  ancient  buildings.  Such  a  place  naturally  exercised 
a  greater  influence  over  him  than  over  most  men  of  his  age. 
Born  and  bred  in  the  heart  of  the  Black  Forest,  brought  up  in 
the  house  that  had  sheltered  his  race  for  centuries,  he  would 
have  felt  uneasy  and  out  of  his  element  if  he  had  been  all  at 
once  transported  to  a  modern  capital.  But  in  Schwarzburg  he 
felt  that  he  was  at  home.  The  huge  cathedral  with  its  spires 
and  arches  and  rich  fretwork  of  dark  stone,  seemed  to  him  the 
model  of  what  all  cathedrals  should  be.  The  swift  river  that 
ran  between  overhanging  buildings,  and  beneath  old  bridges 
that  were  carved  with  armorial  bearings  and  decorated  with  the 
rare  ironwork  of  cunning  smiths,  famous  long  ago,  bore  in  its 
breast  the  legends  of  his  own  forest  home,  and  was  impersonated 
in  many  a  verse  he  had  learned  to  sing  with  his  comrades.  The 
shady  nooks  and  corners,  the  turns  in  the  crooked  streets,  the 
dark  archways  of  old  inns,  the  swinging  signs  with  their  rich 
deep  colour  and  Gothic  characters,  the  projecting  balconies, 
glazed  with  round  bull's  eyes  of  blown  glass  set  in  heavy  lead, 
the  marvellously  wrought  weathercocks  of  iron  and  gold  on  the 
corners  of  the  houses,  every  outward  detail  of  the  time-honoured 
and  time-mellowed  town  spoke  to  his  heart  in  accents  he  not 
only  understood  but  loved.  Even  the  modern  note  did  not  jar 
upon  him.  There  were  few  officers  in  the  streets,  few  soldiers 
in  bright  uniforms.  Occasionally  a  troop  of  white  cuirassiers 
rode  slowly  through  the  main  thoroughfare,  looking  more  like 
mediaeval  knights  than  Prussian  soldiers.  Their  enormous  stat 
ure,  their  bronzed  faces,  their  snow-white  dress  and  gleaming 
corslets,  the  stately,  solemn  tramp  of  their  great  horses,  their 


GliEIFENSTEIN.  75 

straight  broad  blades  without  curve  or  bend  erect  at  their  sides, 
all  made  them  utterly  unlike  the  ordinary  soldiery  of  present 
times,  and  rendered  their  appearance  perfectly  harmonious  with 
their  surroundings.  Even  the  students  in  their  long  boots  and 
coloured  caps  did  not  look  modern,  as  they  strolled  along  in 
knots  of  three  and  four  from  the  University  to  the  mess  at  dinner 
time,  or  thronged  the  pavements  of  the  high  street  towards  even 
ing,  when  the  purple  light  was  on  the  cathedral  spires  and  the 
shadows  were  deepening  below. 

Greif  loved  it  all,  and  to  some  extent  his  affection  was  re 
turned.  He  was  certainly  the  most  popular  student  who  had 
ever  trod  the  stones  of  Schwarzburg,  as  he  was  by  nature  one 
of  the  most  thoroughly  German.  He  had  his  quarrels,  no  doubt, 
but  the  way  he  settled  them  only  served  to  increase  his  reputa 
tion.  He  was  pointed  out  as  the  man  of  forty  duels,  who  had 
never  received  a  serious  wound,  and  it  was  said  to  his  credit 
that  he  never  wantonly  provoked  any  man,  and  that  his  victo 
ries  had  been  chiefly  gained  over  adversaries  from  neighbouring 
Universities.  He  was  looked  upon  as  the  natural  representa 
tive  of  Schwarzburg  in  all  great  affairs,  and  when  he  presided,  in 
the  turn  of  his  Korps,  over  one  of  the  periodical  festivities,  his 
appearance  was  the  occasion  for  a  general  ovation.  The  feeling 
that  he  was  to  be  warmly  welcomed  was  pleasant  to  Greif  as  he 
got  out  upon  the  platform  and  shook  hands  with  a  dozen  who 
awaited  him,  but  the  remembrance  that  this  was  probably  his 
last  return  as  a  student  among  his  comrades  gave  him  a  passing 
sensation  of  sadness.  He  was  approaching  the  end  of  a  very 
happy  period  in  his  life,  and  though  there  was  much  happiness 
in  the  future,  he  was  young  enough  to  regret  what  he  must  leave 
so  soon.  Few  men  know  what  it  is  to  be  the  central  figure  at  a 
great  University,  and  those  who  have  been  so  fortunate  know 
well  enough  how  painful  is  the  leavetaking  and  how  hard  the 
last  good-bye  to  the  scene  of  their  triumphs.  That  moment  had 
not  yet  come  for  Greif,  but  he  could  not  help  seeing  how  very 
near  it  was. 

The  students  led  him  home  to  his  lodgings  over  the  river,  and 
installed  themselves  as  they  could,  all  smoking  and  talking  at 
once,  while  he  opened  his  boxes  and  disposed  some  of  his  be 
longings  in  their  places.  They  told  him  all  the  news,  with  the 
vivacity  of  men  who  have  twenty-four  hours  the  start  of  a  friend. 
The  Rhine  Korps  had  increased  its  numbers  considerably  and 


76  GEEIFEXSTEIN. 

seemed  already  inclined  to  show  its  teeth  to  the  Westphalia 
Korps.  The  Saxon  Korps  had  lost  one  of  their  best  fighters, 
who  had  suddenly  gone  to  another  University.  Hardly  any  of 
the  Prussian  Korps  had  arrived,  and  it  was  doubtful  whether 
they  could  renew  the  lease  of  their  old  drinking-hall.  They 
themselves  —  their  yellow  caps  showed  that  they  were  Swabians 

were  already  on  the  look-out  for  new  "foxes  "  to  enlist,  and 

believed  that  they  had  secured  a  couple  of  excellent  novices. 
The  fencing-master  of  the  Prussians  had  declared  his  intention 
of  fighting  a  pitched  battle  —  sabres  and  no  bandages  —  with 
the  fencing-master  of  the  Rhiners.  It  was  to  be  hoped  that 
neither  would  be  badly  hurt,  as  they  were  both  good  teachers 
and  worth  their  salaries.  There  was  a  new  waiting-girl  at  the 
Stamm-Kneipe  where  they  dined,  and  of  course  all  the  foxes 
would  fall  in  love.  They,  the  fellows,  would  of  course  not 
think  of  such  a  thing.  It  would  be  quite  beneath  their  dignity. 
As  for  the  professors,  all  those  who  were  not  favourites  grew  older 
and  older  and  duller  and  duller.  One  of  the  oldest  and  dullest 
had  been  married  in  the  summer  to  a  girl  of  eighteen,  a  crying 
shame  which  ought  to  be  visited  by  some  demonstration.  Why 
should  a  professor  marry  ?  Was  not  Heine  right,  and  were  not 
some  kinds  of  professors  cumberers  of  the  earth,  as  Achilles 
called  himself  when  Patroclus  had  been  killed?  Horrible  crea 
tures  all  those  whom  the  Swabians  disliked  !  The  professor  of 
Roman  law  looked  more  like  a  disappointed  hyaena  than  ever, 
and  as  for  his  colleague,  the  professor  of  Greek  philosophy,  he 
had  begun  by  looking  like  Socrates,  when  he  was  born,  and 
time  had  done  its  work  with  its  usual  efficacy.  Would  not 
Greif  be  ready  soon  ?  It  was  supper-time. 

Greif  was  thinking  of  the  vanity  of  human  sentiment.  A 
few  hours  earlier  he  had  been  oppressed  by  one  of  the  most 
melancholy  moods  that  had  ever  afflicted  him.  Now,  as  he 
stood  still  for  a  moment,  looking  through  the  open  window  at 
the  stars  as  they  began  to  shine  out  above  the  cathedral  spire 
across  the  river,  he  felt  as  though  ten  years  had  passed  since  he 
had  driven  down  through  the  forest.  Only  the  image  of  Hilda 
remained,  and  seemed  to  drown  in  light  the  gloomy  forebodings 
that  had  so  much  distressed  him.  As  for  Hilda's  own  warning, 
it  had  been  nothing  but  the  result  of  her  sorrow  at  parting. 
And  since  parting  there  must  be,  he  would  enjoy  to  the  full 
what  was  left  of  this  happy  student  life,  with  its  changing 


GREIFENSTEIN.  77 

hours  of  study  and  feasting,  of  poetry,  and  fighting,  and  song 
that  almost  mingled  with  the  clash  of  steel. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  asked  the  students  in  chorus. 

Greif  set  his  yellow  cap  upon  his  close-cut  golden  hair. 

"  Yes  —  come  on  !  Vivat,  floreat,  crescat  Suabia  !  The  last 
semester  shall  be  a  merry  one  !  " 

And  away  they  went,  crowding  down  the  narrow  staircase, 
laughing,  jesting,  and  humming  snatches  of  tunes  as  they  burst 
out  into  the  quiet  shadowy  street  below. 


78  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

GREIF  was  not  able  to  throw  oft'  the  memories  of  his  vacation 
so  easily  as  he  had  at  first  imagined.  The  busy  week  that  fol 
lowed  his  return  to  Schwarzburg  furnished  enough  excitement 
to  divert  his  thoughts  for  a  time  into  a  more  cheerful  channel, 
and  he  was  further  reassured  by  the  fact  that  his  father's  letter 
contained  nothing  that  could  alarm  him.  Everything  was  going 
on  at  Greifenstein  as  usual.  Hilda  and  her  mother  had  returned 
to  Sigmundskron.  The  shooting  was  particularly  good.  A  post 
script  informed  Greif  that  nothing  had  been  heard  from  a  certain 
person,  who  was  not  named.  The  young  man  thought  his 
father's  handwriting  was  growing  larger  and  more  angular  than 
ever,  and  that  instead  of  becoming  less  steady  with  advancing 
years,  the  letters  looked  as  though  they  were  cut  into  the  paper 
with  the  point  of  a  sharp  knife. 

Some  days  passed  quickly  by,  and  he  began  to  think  that  he 
had  disturbed  himself  foolishly,  and  had  suffered  his  judgment 
to  be  unbalanced  by  the  impulsive  speeches  of  Hilda  and  of  his 
own  mother.  Then,  all  at  once,  as  he  sat  one  morning  at  his 
accustomed  place  in  one  of  the  lecture-rooms,  noting  in  a  blank 
book  the  wisdom  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  a  shrivelled  professor, 
his  thoughts  wandered  and  the  vision  of  Hilda  rose  before  his  eyes, 
with  the  expression  she  had  worn  when  she  had  spoken  of  that 
terrible  catastrophe  which  was  in  store  for  him.  He  could  not 
imagine  why  he  should  have  thought  of  the  matter  so  suddenly, 
nor  why  it  seemed  so  much  more  important  than  before.  It  re 
quired  a  strong  effort  to  concentrate  his  mind  once  more  upon 
what  he  was  doing,  and  when  he  succeeded,  he  was  aware  that 
the  point  of  the  professor's  argument  had  escaped  him.  Mechan 
ically  he  looked  at  his  neighbour  to  see  whether  he  had  been 
making  notes.  The  latter  was  a  man  much  older  than  himself, 
and  was  busily  writing  upon  loose  sheets.  He  did  not  look  up, 
but  he  seemed  to  understand  what  Greif  wanted,  for  he  handed 
him,  or  tossed  him,  the  piece  of  paper  on  which  he  was  scrib- 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  79 

bling,  numbered  the  blank  page  beneath  it,  and  went  on  quickly 
without  even  turning  his  eyes.  Greif  thanked  him,  and  in  the 
next  pause  of  the  lecture  copied  the  notes  into  his  own  book. 
At  the  end  of  the  hour  Greif  returned  the  sheet  and  repeated 
his  thanks.  He  did  not  know  the  man,  even  by  sight,  a  fact 
which  surprised  him,  as  the  stranger  was  rather  a  striking 
personage. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged,"  he  said.  "  I  was  absent-minded  — 
thinking  of  something  else." 

"  That  is  always  rash,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  am  very  glad 
to  have  been  of  service  to  you." 

Although  Greif  was  not  fond  of  making  acquaintances  among 
students  who  wore  no  colours,  he  could  not  refrain  from  con 
tinuing  the  conversation.  The  two  were  the  last  to  leave  the 
hall  and  went  down  the  broad  staircase  together. 

"  You  have  not  been  long  in  the  University,"  he  observed. 

"  I  have  only  just  arrived.  I  have  migrated  from  Heidelberg. 
Permit  me  to  introduce  myself,"  he  added  according  to  German 
custom.  "  My  name  is  Rex." 

"  My  name  is  von  Greifenstein.     Most  happy." 

"  Most  happy." 

Both  bowed,  stopping  for  the  purpose  upon  the  landing,  and 
then  looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  Rex  was  a  man  of  rather 
more  than  medium  height,  thin,  but  broad-shouldered  and 
gracefully  built.  He  might  have  been  of  any  age,  but  he  looked 
as  though  he  were  about  thirty  years  old.  It  would  not  have 
surprised  any  one  to  hear  that  he  was  much  older,  or  much 
younger.  Thick  brown  hair  was  carefully  brushed  and  smoothed 
all  over  his  head,  and  he  wore  his  beard,  which  was  of  the  same 
colour,  carefully  trimmed,  full  and  square.  A  soft  and  clear 
complexion,  a  little  less  than  fair  but  very  far  from  dark,  showed 
at  first  sight  that  Rex  rejoiced  in  perfect  health.  The  straight 
nose  was  very  classic  in  outline,  the  brow  and  forehead  evenly 
developed,  the  modelling  about  the  eyes  and  temples  very 
smooth  and  delicate.  But  the  eyes  themselves  destroyed  at 
once  the  harmony  of  the  whole  face  and  gave  it  a  very  uncom 
mon  expression.  This  was  due  entirely  to  their  colour  and  not 
at  all  to  their  shape.  The  iris  was  very  large,  so  that  little  of 
the  surrounding  white  was  visible,  and  its  hue  was  that  of  the 
palest  blue  china,  while  the  pupil  was  so  extremely  small  as  to 
be  scarcely  noticeable.  The  apparent  absence  of  that  shining 


80  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

black  aperture  in  the  centre,  made  the  eyes  look  like  glass 
marbles,  and  rendered  their  glance  indescribably  stony.  Greif 
almost  started  when  he  saw  them. 

"You  preferred  Schwarzburg  to  Heidelberg,  then,"  he  re 
marked,  by  way  of  continuing  the  conversation. 

"  For  my  especial  branch  I  think  it  is  superior." 

"  Philosophy  ?  "  asked  Greif,  thinking  of  the  lecture  they  had 
just  attended. 

"  No.  That  is  a  pastime  with  me.  I  am  interested  in  astron 
omy  and  in  some  branches  connected  with  that  science.  You 
have  a  celebrated  specialist  here." 

"  Yes,  old  Uncle  Sternkitzler,"  answered  Greif  irreverently. 

"  Exactly,"  assented  Rex.  "  He  is  a  shining  light,  a  star  of 
the  first  magnitude.  If  there  is  anything  to  discover,  he  will 
discover  it.  If  not,  he  will  explain  the  reason  why  there  is 
nothing.  He  is  a  great  man.  He  knows  what  nothing  is,  for 
there  is  nothing  he  does  not  know.  I  am  delighted  with  him. 
You  do  not  care  for  astronomy,  Herr  von  Greif  en  stein?" 

"  I  do  not  know  anything  about  it,  and  I  have  no  talent  for 
mathematics,"  answered  Greif.  "You  intend  to  make  it  a 
profession,  I  presume." 

"  Yes,  as  far  as  it  can  be  called  a  profession." 

"  How  far  is  that,  if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

"Just  as  far  as  it  goes  after  it  ceases  to  be  an  amusement," 
answered  Rex. 

"  That  may  be  very  far,"  said  Greif  who  was  struck  by  the 
definition. 

"Yes.  If  you  call  it  a  profession,  it  is  one  for  which  a  life 
time  of  study  is  only  an  insignificant  preparation.  If  you  call 
it  a  study  and  not  a  profession,  you  make  of  it  a  mere  amuse 
ment,  like  philosophy." 

"  I  do  not  find  that  very  amusing,"  said  Greif,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Nothing  is  amusing  when  you  are  obliged  to  do  it,"  answered 
the  other.  "  Duty  is  the  hair  shirt  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
A  man  who  does  his  duty  is  just  as  uncomfortable  while  he  is 
doing  it  as  any  Trappist  who  ever  buckled  on  a  spiked  belt 
under  his  gown." 

"  But  afterwards  ?  " 

"  Afterwards?  What  is  afterwards?  It  is  nothing  to  you  or 
me.  Afterwards  means  the  time  when  you  and  I  are  buried, 
and  the  next  generation  are  writhing  in  hair  shirts  of  their  own 


GREIFENSTEIN.  81 

making,  and  prickly  girdles  which  they  put  on  themselves." 
Rex  laughed  oddly. 

"  I  differ  from  you,"  answered  Greif. 

"  You  are  a  Korps  student,  sir.  Does  that  mean  that  you 
wish  to  quarrel  with  me?" 

"  Not  unless  you  choose.  I  am  not  in  search  of  a  row  this 
morning.  I  differed  from  you  as  to  your  view  of  duty.  It 
seems  to  me  contrary  to  German  ideas." 

"  Facts  are  generally  contrary  to  all  ideas,"  answered  Rex. 

"Not  in  Germany  —  at  least  so  far  as  duty  is  concerned. 
Besides,  if  science  is  true,  facts  must  agree  with  it.  Political 
ethics  are  a  science,  and  duty  is  necessary  to  the  system  that 
science  has  created.  What  would  become  of  our  military 
supremacy  if  the  belief  in  duty  were  suddenly  destroyed  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know.  But  I  know  that  it  will  not  make  the 
smallest  difference  to  us,  what  becomes  of  it,  when  we  are  dead 
and  buried." 

"  It  would  change  the  condition  of  our  children  for  the  worse." 

"You  need  not  marry.  No  one  obliges  you  or  me  to  become 
the  fathers  of  new  specimens  of  our  species." 

"  And  what  becomes  of  love  in  your  system?  "  inquired  Greif, 
more  and  more  surprised  at  his  acquaintance's  extraordinary 
conversation. 

"What  becomes  of  anything  when  it  has  ceased  to  exist?" 
asked  Rex. 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  know  in  the  case.  The  motion  —  you 
would  call  it  force  —  the  motion  continues,  but  the  particular 
thing  in  which  it  was  manifested  is  no  longer,  and  that  particu 
lar  thing  never  will  exist  again.  Motion  is  imperishable,  because 
it  is  immaterial.  The  innumerable  milliards  of  vortices  in  which 
the  material  of  your  body  moves  at  such  an  amazing  rate  will 
not  stand  still  when  you  are  dead,  nor  even  when  every  visible 
atom  of  your  body  has  vanished  from  sight  in  the  course  of 
ages.  Every  vortex  is  imperishable,  eternal,  of  infinite  duration. 
The  vortex  was  the  cause  before  the  beginning  and  it  will 
remain  itself  after  the  end  of  all  things." 

"  The  prime  cause,"  mused  Greif.  "  And  who  made  the 
vortex  ?  " 

"  God,"  answered  Rex  laconically. 

"  But  then,"  objected  the  younger  student  in  some  surprise, 


82  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  you  believe  in  a  future  life,  in  the  importance  of  this  life,  in 
duty,  in  all  the  rest  of  it." 

"I  believe  in  the  vortex,"  replied  the  other,  "in  its  unity, 
individuality  and  eternity.  Life  is  a  matter  of  convenience,  its 
importance  is  a  question  of  opinion,  its  duties  are  ultimately 
considerations  of  taste.  What  are  opinions,  conveniences  and 
tastes,  compared  with  realities?  The  vortex  is  a  fact,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  it  furnishes  enough  material  for  reflexion  to 
satisfy  a  mind  of  ordinary  activity." 

"  You  hold  strange  views,"  said  Greif  thoughtfully. 

"Oh  no!"  exclaimed  Rex,  with  sudden  animation.  "I  am 
not  at  all  different  from  any  other  peaceful  student  of  astronomy, 
I  can  assure  you.  Neither  the  vortex  nor  any  other  fact  ever 
prevents  any  man  from  doing  what  is  individually  agreeable  to 
him,  nor  from  enjoying  everything  that  comes  in  his  way,  or 
calling  it  sinful,  according  to  his  convictions." 

"  And  are  you  a  happy  man,  if  the  question  is  not  indiscreet?" 

"Ah,  that  is  your  favourite  question  among  philosophers," 
laughed  Rex,  "  and  it  shows  what  you  really  think  of  all  your 
beliefs  about  duty  and  the  rest  of  the  virtues.  You  really  care 
for  nothing  but  happiness,  if  the  truth  be  told.  All  your  relig 
ions,  your  moralities,  your  laws,  your  customs,  you  regard  as  a 
means  of  obtaining  ultimate  enjoyment.  There  is  little  merit 
in  being  happy  with  so  much  artificial  assistance.  Real  origi 
nality  should  show  itself  in  surpassing  your  felicity  without 
making  use  of  your  laborious  methods  in  attaining  to  it.  The 
trouble  is  that  your  political  ethics,  your  recipes  for  making 
bliss  in  wholesale  quantities,  take  no  account  of  exceptional 
people.  But  why  should  we  discuss  the  matter?  What  is 
happiness?  [Millions  of  volumes  have  been  written  about  it, 
and  no  man  has  ever  had  the  courage  to  own  exactly  what  he 
believes  would  make  him  happy.  You  may  add  your  name 
to  the  list,  Herr  von  Greifenstein,  if  you  please,  and  write  the 
next  ponderous  work  upon  the  subject.  You  would  not  be  any 
happier  afterwards  and  you  would  be  very  much  older.  If  you 
really  desire  to  be  happy,  I  will  tell  you  how  it  is  possible. 
Jn  the  first  place,  are  you  happy  now? " 

Rex  fixed  his  stony  stare,  that  contrasted  so  strangely  with 
his  beautiful  face,  upon  Greif's  eyes.  He  saw  there  an  uncer 
tainty,  a  vague  uneasiness,  that  answered  his  question  well 
enough. 


GKE1FEN  STEIN.  83 

"Yes,"  answered  the  younger  man  in  a  doubtful  tone,  "I 
suppose  I  am." 

"  I  think  your  happiness  is  not  complete,"  said  Rex,  turning 
away.  "  Perhaps  my  simple  plan  may  help  you.  Interrogate 
yourself.  What  is  it  that  you  want?  Find  out  what  that 
something  is  —  that  is  all." 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"  And  then  ?  Why,  take  it,  and  be  happy,"  answered  Rex 
with  a  careless  smile,  as  though  the  rule  were  simple  enough. 

"  That  is  soon  said,"  replied  Greif  in  a  grave  tone.  "  I  want 
what  no  man  can  give  me." 

"  Nor  woman  either  ?  " 

"  Nor  woman  either." 

"  And  something  you  could  not  take  if  it  were  before  you, 
within  reach  ?  " 

"No.  I  want  nothing  material.  I  want  to  know  the 
future." 

"  Surely  that  is  not  a  very  hard  thing,"  answered  Rex,  look 
ing  at  his  watch. 

"  It  must  be  dinner-time,"  said  Greif  politely,  as  he  noticed 
the  action.  He  had  no  wish  to  detain  his  new  acquaintance. 

"  Indeed,  it  is  just  noon.  I  fear  I  have  kept  you  from  some 
engagement." 

"I  assure  you,  it  has  given  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  meet 
you,"  answered  Greif,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  The  pleasure  has  been  quite  upon  my  side,"  returned  Rex, 
bowing  with  alacrity. 

And  so  they  parted,  Rex  plunging  into  a  shady  side  street, 
while  Greif  continued  his  walk  towards  the  dining-place  of  his 
Korps,  thinking  as  he  went,  of  the  queer  person  he  had  just  seen 
for  the  first  time.  His  name  was  strange,  his  conversation  was 
unusual,  his  eyes  were  most  disagreeable,  and  yet  oddly  fasci 
nating.  Greif  thought  about  him  and  was  not  satisfied  with 
his  short  interview.  The  man's  remark  about  the  future  was 
either  that  of  a  visionary,  or  of  an  absent-minded  person  who 
did  not  always  know  what  he  was  saying.  Greif  himself  could 
hardly  understand  how  he  had  been  led,  in  a  first  meeting  with 
one  who  was  altogether  a  stranger,  to  speak  so  plainly  of  what 
disturbed  him.  It  was  not  his  custom  to  make  acquaintances 
at  a  venture,  or  to  refer  to  his  own  affairs  with  people  he 
did  not  know.  He  reflected,  however,  that  he  had  not  com- 


84  GREIFENSTEIN. 

mitted  himself  in  any  way,  while  admitting  that  he  might 
easily  have  been  drawn  on  to  do  so  if  the  interview  had  been 
prolonged. 

At  dinner  he  asked  his  friends  whether  any  of  them  knew  a 
student  whose  name  was  Rex.  No  one  had  heard  of  him,  and 
on  learning  that  he  was  a  man  older  than  the  average,  they 
murmured,  and  said  one  to  another  that  Greif  was  beginning 
to  cross  the  borders  of  Philistia.  After  the  meal  was  over, 
Greif  went  to  his  lodgings  and  tried  to  work.  The  sudden 
anxiety  that  had  seized  him  in  the  morning  during  the  lecture 
grew  stronger  in  solitude,  until  it  was  almost  unbearable.  He 
pushed  aside  his  books  and  wrote  to  his  father,  inquiring 
whether  anything  had  happened,  in  a  way  which  would  cer 
tainly  have  surprised  old  Greifenstein  if  he  himself  had  been 
less  nervous  about  the  future  than  he  actually  was.  It  was  a 
relief  to  have  written,  and  Greif  returned  to  his  labours  more 
quietly  afterwards. 

He  did  not  see  Rex  again  in  the  lecture-room,  though  his  eye 
wandered  along  the  rows  of  heads  bent  down  over  busy  hands 
that  wrote  without  ceasing.  Rex  was  not  among  them.  He 
had  said  that  he  considered  philosophy  an  amusement,  and  he 
probably  came  to  the  hall  where  it  was  taught  when  the  fancy 
seized  him  to  divert  himself.  But  the  desire  to  talk  with  him 
again  became  stronger,  until  Greif  actually  determined  to  go  in 
search  of  the  man. 

The  sun  had  gone  down,  and  he  stood  at  his  open  window  as 
he  had  done  on  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  watching  almost 
unconsciously  for  the  first  stars  to  shine  out  above  the  cathedral 
spire.  The  air  was  very  quiet,  disturbed  by  no  sound  but  the 
swirl  of  the  deep  river  against  the  stone  piers  of  the  bridge  far 
down  below  the  student's  window.  There  was  something  mel 
ancholy  in  the  ceaseless  rush  of  the  strong  water,  which  re 
minded  him  of  the  sighing  of  the  trees  at  home,  on  that  last 
morning  when  he  had  sat  with  Hilda  at  the  foot  of  the  Hunger- 
Thurm.  At  such  a  time  anything  which  recalled  the  circum 
stances  of  the  vacation  necessarily  brought  with  it  an  increase 
in  his  anxiety.  Greif  thought  of  the  evening  that  was  before 
him  if  he  joined  his  comrades  at  their  usual  place  of  meeting, 
and  the  prospect  was  distasteful.  He  would  be  glad  to  escape 
from  the  lights  and  the  noise  and  the  drinking  and  singing, 
even  from  his  position  of  importance  among  his  fellows,  who 


GREIFENSTEIN.  85 

made  him  their  oracle  upon  all  University  matters.  He  would 
prefer  to  pass  an  hour  or  two  in  quiet  conversation,  in  a  quiet 
room,  with  Rex  the  __  student  of  astronomy  and  mathematics. 
He  did  not  know  where  he  lived,  nor  whether  he  would  be  at 
home  at  that  hour,  but  it  was  easy  to  satisfy  his  curiosity  upon 
both  points. 

He  found  the  address  he  wanted  at  the  Beadle's  office.  Rex 
lived  in  a  dark  street  near  the  cathedral.  Greif  climbed  many 
flights  of  steps,  finding  his  way  by  striking  one  match  after 
another.  At  the  top  there  was  but  one  door.  He  knocked 
twice  and  waited.  There  was  no  answer,  and  he  knocked  again. 
He  was  sure  that  he  could  hear  some  one  moving  inside  the 
apartment,  but  the  door  remained  closed.  Annoyed  at  being 
kept  waiting  he  pounded  loudly  with  a  piece  of  iron  and  called 
on  Rex  byname.  He  was  rewarded  at  last  by  hearing  footsteps 
within. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  an  angry  voice.  "  And  why  are  you 
making  such  a  hideous  noise  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  von  Greifenstein,"  replied  Greif,  "  and  I  want 
to  see  Herr  Rex." 

He  was  preparing  for  a  disagreeable  encounter  with  some 
unknown  person,  when  the  door  opened  quickly  and  he  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  Rex  himself.  His  expression  was 
bland  in  the  extreme  as  he  held  up  the  light  he  carried  and 
greeted  his  guest. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  in  tones  very  unlike  those  Greif 
had  just  heard.  "  I  had  no  idea  that  it  was  you.  Pray  come  in." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  disturbing  you,"  answered  Greif,  hesitating 
as  though  he  had  forgotten  the  tremendous  energy  he  had  put 
into  his  knocking. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  repeated  Rex,  carefully  fastening  the 
door  when  Greif  had  entered.  "  You  see  I  am  a  newcomer 
and  have  no  friends  here,"  he  continued  apologetically,  "and 
I  did  not  imagine  that  you  knew  my  address." 

After  passing  through  a  narrow  passage,  Greif  found  himself 
in  a  large  room  with  three  windows.  It  was  evident  that  Herr 
Rex  lived  more  luxuriously  than  most  students,  for  there  was 
no  bed  in  the  place,  and  an  open  door  showed  that  there  was 
at  least  one  other  apartment  beyond.  A  couple  of  bookcases  were 
well  filled  with  volumes,  and  there  was  a  great  heap  of  others 
upon  the  floor  in  the  corner.  Two  large  easy-chairs  stood  on 


86  GREIFENSTEIN. 

opposite  sides  of  the  porcelain  stove,  which  at  that  season  was 
of  course  not  in  use.  A  broad  table  in  the  centre  was  covered 
with  books,  many  of  them  new,  and  papers  covered  with  notes 
or  figures  were  strewn  amongst  them  in  the  greatest  disorder. 
Near  one  of  the  windows  Greif  noticed  a  writing-desk,  upon 
which  lay  a  few  drawing  and  writing  materials  and  a  large 
sheet  of  paper.  It  was  clear  that  Rex  had  been  at  work  here, 
for  a  bright  lamp  stood  upon  the  desk  and  its  strong  light  fell 
from  beneath  the  green  shade  upon  the  mathematical  figure 
that  had  absorbed  the  student's  attention. 

"  It  is  a  very  quiet  lodging,"  remarked  Rex,  drawing  forward 
one  of  the  arm-chairs  and  then  seating  himself  in  the  other. 
"It  is  just  what  I  wanted.  I  do  not  like  noise  when  I  am 
reading." 

Greif  did  not  exactly  know  what  to  say.  To  visit  a  student 
in  his  rooms  when  he  had  only  met  him  once,  was  a  new  experi 
ence,  and  Rex's  stony  blue  eyes  seemed  to  ask  the  object  of  his 
coming.  It  was  evident  that  Rex  only  spoke  of  his  habitation 
in  order  to  break  a  silence  which  might  have  been  awkward. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Greif,  as  though  answering  a  direct 
question,  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  you  said  the  other 
day." 

"  You  do  my  remarks  an  honour  which  I  believe  they  have 
never  received  before,"  replied  Rex,  bending  his  handsome 
head  and  smiling  in  his  brown  beard. 

"Do  you  remember?  I  said  that  I  needed  only  one  thing  to 
make  me  happy.  I  wanted  to  know  the  future.  You  answered 
that  it  must  be  easy  to  get  my  wish.  Were  you  in  earnest,  or 
did  you  speak  thoughtlessly?  That  is  what  I  came  to  ask 
you." 

"Indeed?"  Rex  laughed.  "You  said  to  yourself  that  your 
acquaintance  was  either  a  fool  or  an  absent-minded  person,  did 
you  not  ? " 

"  Well  —  "  Greif  hesitated  and  smiled.  "  Either  visionary 
or  absent-minded,"  he  admitted.  "Yes,  I  could  not  explain 
your  remark  in  any  other  way." 

"  Of  course  you  could  not,  unless  you  suspected  that  I  might 
be  a  charlatan." 

"  That  did  not  occur  to  me —  " 

"It  might  have  occurred  to  you,  considering  what  I  had 
said.  It  might  occur  to  you  now,  if  I  answered  your  question. 


GREIFEN  STEIN.  87 

But  on  the  other  hand  it  is  of  no  importance  whether  it  does 
or  not.  My  reply  will  contribute  to  your  peace  of  mind  by 
helping  you  to  catalogue  a  man  you  do  not  know  among  the 
fools  and  charlatans  of  whom  you  have  heard.  Would  you  like 
to  know  the  future?  I  can  tell  it  to  you,  if  you  please." 

"  The  vortex,  I  suppose,"  answered  Greif  rather  scornfully. 

"  Yes.  I  can  tell  you  the  direction  of  the  vortices  of  which 
you  are  composed,  for  a  time,  while  they  are  on  their  way  to 
join  other  vortices  in  the  dance  of  death.  The  vortices  do 
nothing  but  dance,  spin  and  whirl  for  ever  through  life,  the 
farce;  through  death,  the  tragedy;  and  through  all  the  eternity 
of  the  epilogue.  What  do  you  wish  to  know?  " 

"  You  are  jesting !  "  exclaimed  Greif  moodily.  "  I  wish  you 
would  be  in  earnest." 

"  In  earnest ! "  cried  Rex  contemptuously.     "  What  is  earnest 


ness 


He  rose  and  went  to  the  desk  upon  which  the  lamp  was 
burning,  opened  it  and  took  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  from  within. 
Greif  watched  him  with  considerable  indifference.  He  had 
not  found  what  he  had  sought  and  he  already  meditated  a 
retreat.  Rex  paid  no  attention  to  him,  but  rapidly  described 
a  circle  upon  the  paper  and  divided  it  into  twelve  parts  with 
a  ruler. 

"Do  you  remember  the  date  of  the  day  we  met?"  he  asked, 
looking  up. 

"  It  was  a  Monday,"  replied  Greif,  wondering  what  his  com 
panion  was  doing. 

"  That  will  do.    I  have  a  calendar,"  said  Rex. 

He  consulted  an  almanac  which  he  drew  from  his  pocket, 
made  a  few  short  calculations,  and  jotted  down  certain  signs 
and  figures  in  various  parts  of  the  divided  circle.  When  he 
had  finished  he  looked  attentively  at  what  he  had  done.  The 
whole  operation  had  occupied  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  are  anxious,"  he  remarked,  as  he 
resumed  his  seat  in  the  easy-chair,  still  holding  the  sheet  of 
paper  in  his  hand. 

"  What  have  you  discovered  ?  "  inquired  Greif,  with  an  incred 
ulous  smile. 

"  You  are  threatened  by  a  great  calamity,  you  and  all  who 
belong  to  you,"  replied  Rex.  "  I  suppose  you  know  it,  and  that 
is  the  reason  why  you  want  to  know  the  future." 


88  GREIFEN  STEIN. 

Greif's  cheek  turned  slowly  pale,  not  at  the  announcement, 
but  at  the  thought  that  this  chance  student  perhaps  knew  of 
Rieseneck's  existence,  and  of  all  that  his  return  might  involve. 

"Herr  Rex,"  he  said  sternly,  "be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what 
you  know  of  me  and  my  family  from  other  sources  than  that 
bit  of  paper." 

"Not  much,"  answered  the  other  with  a  dry  laugh.  "I 
barely  knew  of  your  existence  until  I  met  you  the  other  day, 
and  I  have  not  mentioned  you  nor  heard  your  name  spoken 
since." 

"  Why  then,  you  can  know  nothing,  and  your  figures  cannot 
tell  you,"  said  Greif,  not  yet  certain  whether  to  feel  relief  at 
the  protestation  of  ignorance,  or  to  doubt  its  veracity. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  see  here  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  the  nature  of  the  calamity." 

"Its  nature,  or  the  cause  of  it?"  inquired  Rex,  scrutinising 
the  sheet  of  paper. 

"  I  suppose  that  they  must  be  closely  connected.  Let  me 
know  the  cause  first  —  it  will  be  the  surest  test." 

Rex  laid  the  paper  upon  his  knee,  and  folded  his  hands, 
looking  his  guest  in  the  face. 

"  Herr  von  Greifenstein,  this  is  a  very  serious  matter,"  he 
said.  "  If  I  tell  you  what  I  have  just  discovered,  you  will 
certainly  believe  that  I  knew  it  all  before,  and  that  I  am  acting 
a  comedy.  You  must  either  bind  yourself  to  put  faith  in  my 
innocence,  or  we  must  drop  this  affair  and  talk  of  something 
else." 

Greif  was  silent  for  some  moments.  To  refuse  was  to  insult 
a  man  of  whom  he  had  gratuitously  asked  a  question.  To 
promise  with  the  intention  of  keeping  his  word  was  impossible. 
He  found  himself  in  an  awkward  dilemma.  Rex  helped  him 
out  of  it  with  his  usual  skill. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  is  passing  in  your  mind,  and  why  you 
are  silent,"  he  said.  "  You  feel  that  you  cannot  believe  me.  I 
do  not  blame  you.  You  will  not  give  your  word  in  such  a  case, 
because  you  must  break  it.  You  are  quite  right.  You  are  full 
of  curiosity  to  learn  how  much  I  know  about  you.  It  is  very 
natural.  The  wisest  thing  to  be  done,  is  to  sacrifice  your  curi 
osity  and  I  will  tear  up  this  piece  of  paper." 

"No  —  wait  a  moment!"  cried  Greif  anxiously,  putting  out 
his  hand  to  prevent  the  act. 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  89 

"  I  do  not  see  any  other  way  out  of  the  difficulty,"  observed 
Rex,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  looking  at  the  stove.  "  You 
may  do  this,  however.  You  may  think  what  you  please  of  me, 
provided  you  do  not  express  your  disbelief.  I  am  the  most 
pacific  of  men,  and  I  have  a  strong  dislike  to  fighting  at  my 
age.  Moreover,  you  asked  me  the  question  which  led  to  all 
this.  Even  if  I  answer  it,  am  I  bound  to  explain  the  reasons 
for  my  reply  ?  I  believe  the  code  of  honour  does  not  require 
that,  and  if  there  is  nothing  offensive  to  you  in  my  predictions, 
I  do  not  see  why  we  need  quarrel  after  all,  nor  what  it  matters 
how  I  obtained  my  information.  I  will  promise,  too,  not  to 
impart  it  to  any  one  else.  Of  course,  the  simplest  way  of  end 
ing  the  matter  would  be  to  say  no  more  about  it." 

Somehow  Rex's  words  seemed  to  change  the  position.  Greif 
was  inwardly  conscious  that  he  would  not  leave  the  house  with 
out  discovering  how  much  his  companion  knew,  and  if  this  sub 
mission  to  his  own  curiosity  was  little  flattering  to  his  pride,  it 
was  at  least  certain  that  he  could  obtain  what  he  wanted  with 
out  derogating  from  his  dignity  if  he  would  follow  the  advice 
Rex  gave  him. 

"  The  compact  is  to  be  this,  I  understand,"  he  answered  at 
length.  "  You  will  tell  me  what  you  know,  and  I  will  express 
no  opinion  as  to  the  way  in  which  you  arrived  at  the  informa 
tion.  Is  that  what  you  desire  V  " 

"  It  is  what  I  suggest,"  answered  Rex.  "  And  I  bind  myself 
voluntarily  to  silence." 

"  Very  good.  Will  you  continue  your  predictions  ?  Will  you 
tell  me  the  cause  of  the  danger  ?  " 

"  You  and  your  family  are  threatened  with  great  misfortune 
through  the  return  of  an  evil  person  —  a  relation,  I  should  fancy 
—  who  has  been  absent  many  years." 

Gi'eif  started  at  the  directness  of  the  assertion,  and  an  exclama 
tion  of  something  like  anger  rose  to  his  lips.  But  he  remem 
bered  the  compact  he  had  just  made. 

"  Will  he  return  ? "  he  asked  in  a  voice  which  showed  Rex 
that  he  was  not  mistaken. 

"  Inevitably,"  answered  the  latter.  "  Therein  consists  the 
peculiarity  of  your  situation.  You  are  at  the  mercy  of  the 
inevitable.  You  cannot  retard  by  one  day  the  catastrophe,  any 
more  than  you  can  prevent  one  of  the  planets  from  returning 
to  a  given  point  in  its  orbit.  He  will  return  —  let  me  see  — " 


90  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  when  ?  "  asked  Greif ,  who  for  a  moment 
had  forgotten  his  scepticism. 

Rex  seemed  to  be  making  a  calculation,  and  repeating  it 
more  than  once  in  order  to  be  sure  of  its  accuracy. 

"  In  three  months,  more  or  less.  Probably  before  Christmas. 
He  is  now  at  a  great  distance,  in  the  south-west  — 

"  It  is  impossible  that  you  should  guess  so  much  !  "  exclaimed 
Greif,  rising  in  great  excitement. 

"You  were  not  to  express  an  opinion,  I  believe,"  observed 
Rex,  looking  coldly  at  the  younger  man. 

"  Can  you  describe  him  ?  "  asked  Greif,  almost  fiercely. 

"Oh  yes,"  replied  the  other.  "He  is  elderly,  almost  old. 
Perhaps  sixty  years  of  age.  He  is  violent,  unreliable,  gener 
ally  unfortunate,  probably  disgraced.  That  is  no  doubt  the 
reason  why  you  dread  his  return  —  " 

"  Look  here,  Herr  Rex ! "  cried  Greif,  interrupting  him  vio 
lently.  "  I  do  not  care  a  straw  for  our  compact,  as  you  call  it  — 

"  You  agreed  to  it.  I  did  not  desire  to  speak  further  in  the 
matter." 

"  Will  you  agree  to  forget  that  there  was  any  compact  ? " 
asked  Greif  desperately. 

"  Oh  no,  certainly  not,"  answered  his  tormenter.  "  And  you 
will  not  forget  it  either.  You  are  a  man  of  your  word,  Herr 
von  Greifenstein.  All  I  can  do  is  to  hold  my  tongue  and  tell 
you  nothing  more." 

"  That  need  not  prevent  my  quarrelling  with  you  about  some 
thing  else  —  " 

"  No,  if  you  find  it  possible.    It  is  not  easy  to  quarrel  with  me." 

"  But  if  I  were  to  insult  you —  " 

"  You  will  not  do  so,"  returned  Rex  very  calmly  and  gravely. 
"You  are  bound  not  to  attack  me  about  my  predictions,  and 
so  far  as  any  other  cause  of  disagreement  is  concerned,  I  think 
you  will  find  it  hard  to  discover  one,  for  you  came  here  to  make 
a  friendly  visit,  without  a  thought  of  quarrelling.  I  think  you 
must  see  that." 

Greif  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  silence  for  some 
minutes.  He  felt  the  superiority  of  Rex's  position,  and  would 
not  stoop  to  force  the  situation  by  any  brutal  discourtesy.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  distracted  by  the  idea  that  Rex  had  not 
yet  told  him  half  of  what  he  knew. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said  at  last.     "  I  am  a  fool !  " 


GREIFENSTEIN.  91 

"  No,  you  are  an  agglomeration  of  vortices,"  answered  Rex 
with  a  smile.  "  Shall  I  tell  you  one  fact  more,  one  very  curious 
fact?" 

"  Tell  me  all !  "  answered  Greif  with  sudden  energy. 

"  In  the  nature  of  things,  you  should  have  news  of  that  person 
to-day.  You  have  not  heard  from  him  before  coming  here  ?  " 

"No,  and  I  think  nothing  could  be  more  improbable  than 
that  I  should  have  news  of  him  at  all,  beyond  what  you  tell  me. 
Besides,  I  could  prevent  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing." 

•'  How?  "  inquired  Rex. 

"  By  trespassing  upon  your  hospitality  until  midnight,"  an 
swered  Greif  with  a  laugh,  in  which  his  natural  good  temper 
reappeared  once  more. 

"  Will  you  do  so  ?  "  asked  the  student  with  the  greatest  readi 
ness.  "  Here  is  a  test  of  my  veracity.  Whether  you  stay  here, 
or  go  home,  or  wander  out  alone  by  the  river,  you  will  hear  of 
that  individual  before  midnight." 

"  But  nobody  knows  I  am  here." 

"  The  stars  know,"  answered  Rex  with  a  smile.  "  Will  you 
stay  with  me,  or  will  you  go  home?  It  makes  no  difference, 
excepting  that  by  staying  you  will  give  me  the  advantage  of 
your  company  —  " 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Greif.  There  was  a  loud  knocking 
at  the  outer  door. 

"  Probably  news  from  your  uncle,"  answered  Rex  impertui'ba- 
bly.  "  Will  you  open  the  door  ?  There  can  be  no  deception  then." 

"  Yes.     I  will  open  the  door." 

A  telegraph  messenger  was  outside,  and  inquired  if  Herr  von 
Greifenstein  were  in  the  lodging. 

"How  did  you  know  where  I  was?"  asked  Greif. 

"It  was  marked  urgent  and  so  I  inquired  at  the  Poodle's 
office,"  answered  the  fellow  with  a  grin  as  he  signified  the  official 
by  the  students'  slang  appellation. 

Greif  hastened  to  the  inner  room  and  tore  open  the  envelope, 
his  face  pale  with  excitement. 

"My  father  telegraphs — 'Your  uncle  has  written  his  inten 
tion  to  return  at  once  — '  Good  heavens !  " 

He  tossed  the  bit  of  paper  to  Rex  and  fell  back  in  his  chair 
overcome  by  something  very  like  fear. 

Rex  glanced  at  the  despatch  and  then  returned  to  the  study 
of  his  figure  without  betraying  any  surprise. 


92  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

GREIF'S  first  sensation  was  that  of  astonishment,  almost 
amounting  to  stupefaction.  Rex  could  have  desired  no  more 
striking  fulfilment  of  a  prediction  than  chance  had  vouchsafed 
to  him  in  the  present  instance.  For  he  admitted  to  himself 
that  fortune  had  favoured  him,  even  though  the  arrival  of  the 
news  within  twenty-four  hours  was  not  in  his  belief  a  mere 
coincidence.  The  telegram  might  have  come  at  any  other 
moment  and  might  have  found  Greif  in  any  other  place.  As 
for  Greif,  he  saw  at  a  glance  how  impossible  it  was  that  Rex 
should  have  foreseen  the  incident,  or  planned  the  circumstances 
in  which  it  occurred.  He  could  not  have  known  that  Greif  was 
coming  that  evening,  unless  he  knew  everything,  and  moreover 
the  despatch  was  fresh  from  the  office,  and  twenty  minutes  had 
not  elapsed  between  the  time  of  its  reception  over  the  wires  and 
of  its  delivery  into  Greif's  hands. 

If  the  occurrence  was  strange,  its  effect  upon  the  young  man 
was  at  least  equally  unforeseen.  Greif  had  always  despised  per 
sons  who  professed  to  dabble  in  the  supernatural,  and  had 
laughed  to  scorn  all  the  so-called  manifestations  of  spiritualism, 
mesmerism,  and  super-rational  force.  When  he  had  heard  that 
the  great  astronomer  Zollner  had  written  a  book  to  explain  the 
performances  of  Slade,  the  medium,  by  means  of  a  mathematical 
theory  of  a  fourth  dimension  in  space,  Greif  had  believed  that 
the  scientist  was  raving  mad.  Up  to  the  moment  when  the 
telegram  had  arrived,  he  had  been  convinced  that  Rex  was  a 
cheat,  who  had  accidentally  learned  certain  facts  connected  with 
the  Greifensteins  and  was  attempting  to  play  the  magician  by 
making  an  adroit  use  of  what  he  knew.  When  brought  sud 
denly  face  to  face  with  a  phenomenon  he  could  not  explain, 
Greif's  reason  ceased  altogether  to  perform  its  functions.  The 
news  he  had  just  received  was  startling,  but  the  bewilderment 
caused  by  its  arrival  at  that  precise  juncture  made  even  Riese- 
neck's  return  seem  insignificant,  in  comparison  with  Rex's 
power  to  foretell  the  announcement  of  it. 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  93 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Greif,  staring  at  his  companion. 

"Nor  I,  beyond  a  certain  point,"  replied  the  elder  man,  look 
ing  up  from  his  paper. 

"  How  could  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  did  not,  until  a  few  minutes  before  I  told  you.  Of  course 
you  thought  I  did.  It  is  very  natural." 

"  It  could  hardly  have  been  a  coincidence,"  said  Greif,  almost 
to  himself. 

"  Hardly."     Rex  smiled. 

"And  yet,"  continued  Greif,  "I  do  not  see  any  way  of  ex 
plaining  it  all." 

"  I  could  show  you,  but  it  would  need  several  years  to  do  so." 

"  It  is  not  a  personal  gift  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  a  science." 

"  Of  what  kind  ?  " 

"  It  is  that  part  of  astronomy  in  which  the  public  does  not 
believe.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Astrology  ? "  inquired  Greif  with  a  rather  foolish  and  yet 
incredulous  smile.  "  I  thought  that  was  considered  to  be  nothing 
but  mediaeval  ignorance." 

"  It  is  considered  so.  Whether  it  is  really  nothing  better  than 
a  superstition  you  have  had  an  opportunity  of  judging." 

"But  how  can  you  reconcile  it  with  serious  science?" 

"  The  vortex  reconciles  everything  —  even  men  who  are  on  the 
point  of  quarrelling,  when  the  circumstances  are  favourable." 

"  But  if  all  this  is  true,  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  know  everything  —  " 

"  Not  everything.  There  are  cases  when  it  is  clear  from  the 
first  that  a  question  cannot  be  answered.  With  better  tools,  a 
man  might  do  much  more.  But  one  may  foretell  much,  if  one 
will  take  the  trouble.  Will  you  hear  more  of  what  I  have  dis 
covered  about  you?  " 

Greif  hesitated.  His  strongly  rational  bent  of  mind  sug 
gested  to  him  that  after  all  there  might  be  some  trickery  in  the 
prediction  so  lately  fulfilled,  though  he  was  unable  to  detect 
it.  But  if  Rex  foretold  the  future  Greif  felt  that  he  must  be 
influenced,  and  perhaps  made  very  unhappy  by  the  prophecy, 
which  might  in  the  end  prove  utterly  false.  It  would  be  more 
prudent,  he  thought,  to  wait  and  lay  a  trap  for  the  pretended 
astrologer,  by  asking  him  at  another  time  to  answer  a  different 
question,  of  which  it  should  be  certain  that  he  had  no  previous 


94  GREIFENSTEIN. 

knowledge.  The  conclusion  was  quite  in  accordance  with 
Greif's  prudent  nature,  which  instinctively  distrusted  the  evi 
dence  of  its  senses  beyond  a  certain  point,  and  desired  to  pre 
pare  its  experiments  with  true  German  scepticism,  leaving 
nothing  to  chance  and  fortifying  the  conclusion  by  the  purifica 
tion  of  the  means. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  will  not  hear  any  more  at 
present." 

"  Which  means  that  you  will  ask  me  an  unforeseen  question 
one  of  these  days  to  test  my  strength,"  observed  Rex  with  a 
smile. 

Greif  laughed  rather  nervously,  for  the  remark  expressed  ex 
actly  what  was  passing  in  his  mind. 

"  I  confess,  I  meant  to  do  so.  How  did  you  know  what  I  was 
thinking?" 

"  By  experience.  Are  not  the  nine-tenths  of  every  human 
being  precisely  like  the  nine-tenths  of  the  next  ?  The  difficulties 
of  life  are  connected  with  that  tenth  which  is  not  alike  in  any 
two." 

u  Your  experience  must  have  been  very  great." 

"  It  has  been  just  great  enough  to  teach  me  to  recognise  the 
point  at  which  no  experience  is  of  any  use  whatever." 

"  And  what  is  that  point?  " 

"  Generally  the  sweetest  in  life,  and  the  most  dangerous." 

"  You  speak  in  riddles,  Herr  Rex." 

"  One  man's  life  is  another  man's  riddle,  and  if  he  succeeds  in 
guessing  its  solution  he  cries  out  that  it  is  a  sham  and  was  not 
worth  guessing  at  all." 

"  1  believe  you  are  a  man-hater,"  said  Greif. 

"  Why  should  I  be  ?  The  world  gives  me  all  I  ask  of  it,  and 
if  that  is  not  much  the  fault  lies  in  my  scanty  imagination. 
The  world  is  a  flower-garden.  If  you  like  the  flowers,  pluck 
them.  Happiness  consists  in  knowing  what  we  want,  or  in 
imagining  that  we  want  something.  To  take  it  is  an  easy 
matter." 

"  Then  everybody  ought  to  be  happy." 

"Everybody  might  be  —  if  everybody  would  take  the  conse 
quences.  That  is  the  stumbling-block  —  the  lack  of  an  ounce  of 
determination  and  a  drachm  of  courage." 

"  Paradoxes !  "  exclaimed  Greif.  "  Life  is  a  more  serious 
matter  —  " 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  95 

"  Than  death  ?    Certainly."    Rex  laughed. 

"  I  did  not  say  that,"  returned  Greif  gravely.  "  Death  is  the 
most  serious  of  all  earthly  matters.  No  one  can  laugh  at  it." 

"  Then  I  am  alone  in  the  world.  I  laugh  at  it.  Serious  ? 
Why,  it  is  the  affair  of  a  moment  compared  with  a  lifetime  of 
enjoyment ! " 

"  And  what  may  come  afterwards  does  not  disturb  you?" 

"Why  should  it?  Is  there  any  sense  in  being  made  mis 
erable  by  the  concoctions  of  other  people's  hysterical  im 
agination  ?  " 

Greif  was  silent.  He  was  young  enough  and  simple  enough 
to  be  shocked  by  Rex's  indifference  and  unbelief,  and  yet  the 
man  exercised  an  influence  over  him  which  he  felt  and  did  not 
resent.  Phrases  which  would  have  sounded  shallow  in  the 
mouth  of  a  Korps  student,  discussing  the  immortality  of 
the  soul  over  his  twentieth  measure  of  beer,  produced  a  very 
different  impression  when  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  sober 
astronomer  with  the  strange  eyes.  Greif  felt  uncomfortable, 
and  yet  he  knew  that  he  would  certainly  seek  the  society  of 
Rex  again  at  no  distant  date.  At  present  all  his  ideas  were 
unsettled,  and  after  a  moment's  silence  he  rose  to  go. 

"  Do  not  forget  your  telegram,"  said  Rex,  handing  it  to 
him. 

"  Shall  you  go  to  the  philosophy  lecture  to-morrow  ?  "  asked 
Greif  as  he  reached  the  door. 

"  Perhaps." 

Rex  insisted  on  showing  his  guest  down  the  stairs  to  the 
outer  door,  a  civility  which  was  almost  necessaiy,  considering 
the  darkness  of  the  descent.  As  Greif  went  down  the  narrow 
street,  Rex  stood  on  the  threshold,  shading  the  light  with  his 
hand  and  listening  to  the  decreasing  echo  of  the  footsteps  in 
the  distance.  Then  he  re-entered  the  house  and  climbed  to  his 
lodging. 

"  So  much  for  astrology ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  sat  down  oppo 
site  the  empty  chair  which  Greif  had  lately  occupied.  For  a 
long  time  he  did  not  move,  but  remained  in  his  place,  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  apparently  ruminating  upon  the  past  conversation. 
When  he  rose  at  last,  he  had  reached  the  conclusion  that  his 
coming  to  Schwarzburg  was  a  step  upon  which  he  might  con 
gratulate  himself. 

From  that  day  his  acquaintance  with  Greif  gradually  ripened 


96  GREIFENSTEIN. 

into  an  intimacy.  Its  growth  was  almost  imperceptible  at  first, 
but  before  a  month  had  passed  the  two  met  every  day.  Greif's 
companions  murmured.  It  was  a  sad  sight  in  their  eyes,  and 
they  could  not  be  reconciled  to  it.  But  Greif  explained  that  he 
was  thinking  seriously  of  his  final  degree,  and  that  he  must  be 
excused  for  frequenting  the  society  of  a  much  older  man,  after 
having  given  the  Korps  the  best  years  of  his  University  life. 
He  even  offered  to  resign  his  position  as  first  in  charge,  but  the 
proposition  raised  a  storm  of  protests  and  he  continued  to  wear 
the  yellow  cap  as  before. 

He  wrote  to  his  father  frequently,  but  after  the  first  confir 
mation  of  the  telegram  he  got  no  further  news  of  Rieseneck. 
He  described  Rex,  and  spoke  of  his  growing  friendship  with 
the  remarkable  student,  who  seemed  to  know  everything,  and 
old  Greifenstein  was  glad  to  learn  that  his  son's  mind  was  taking 
a  serious  direction.  He  wrote  to  his  mother  more  than  once,  in 
terms  more  affectionate  than  he  had  formerly  used,  but  her 
answers  were  short  and  unsatisfactory,  and  never  evoked  in  his 
heart  that  thrill  of  pity  and  love  which  had  so  much  surprised 
him  in  himself  during  the  last  weeks  at  home.  He  wrote  to 
Hilda,  but  her  letters  in  reply  had  a  sadness  in  them  that  made 
him  almost  fear  to  break  the  seal.  It  was  at  such  moments 
that  the  anxiety  for  the  future  came  upon  him  with  redoubled 
force,  until  he  began  to  believe  that  the  person  most  directly 
threatened  by  that  fatal  catastrophe  which  had  been  foretold 
must  be  Hilda  herself.  He  thought  more  than  once  of  putting 
the  question  to  Rex  directly,  to  be  decided  by  his  mysterious 
art.  It  would  have  been  a  relief  to  him  if  the  decision  had 
chanced  to  be  contrary  to  his  own  vague  forebodings,  but  on 
the  other  hand,  it  seemed  like  a  profanation  of  his  loAre  to 
explain  the  situation  to  his  friend.  He  never  spoke  of  Hilda, 
and  Rex  did  not  know  of  her  existence. 

And  yet  Rex  was  constantly  at  his  side,  a  part  of  his  life,  an 
element  in  his  plans,  a  contributor  to  all  his  thoughts.  He 
would  not  have  admitted  that  he  was  under  the  man's  influence, 
and  the  student  of  astronomy  would  never  have  claimed  any 
such  superiority.  It  was  nevertheless  a  fact  that  Greif  asked 
his  friend's  advice  almost  daily,  and  profited  greatly  thereby,  as 
well  as  by  the  inexhaustible  fund  of  information  which  the 
mathematician  placed  at  his  disposal.  Nevertheless  Greif  did 
not  lay  the  trap  by  which  he  had  intended  to  test  Rex's  science, 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  97 

or  expose  his  charlatanism,  as  the  result  should  determine.  He 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  try  the  experiment,  for  he  liked 
Rex  more  and  more,  and  began  to  dread  lest  anything  should 
occur  to  cause  a  breach  in  their  friendship. 

It  chanced  that  on  a  certain  evening  of  November  Greif  and 
Rex  were  sitting  at  a  small  marble  table  in  the  corner  of  the 
principal  restaurant.  They  often  came  to  this  place  to  dine, 
because  it  was  not  frequented  by  the  students,  and  they  were 
more  free  from  interruption  than  in  one  of  the  ordinary  beer 
saloons  of  the  town.  They  had  finished  their  meal  and,  the 
cloth  having  been  removed,  were  discussing  what  remained  of  a 
bottle  of  Makgrafler  wine.  Greif  was  smoking,  and  Rex,  as  he 
talked,  made  sketches  of  his  companion's  head  upon  the  marble 
table. 

A  student  entered  the  hall,  looked  about  at  its  occupants,  and 
presently  installed  himself  in  a  seat  near  the  two  friends,  touch 
ing  his  blue  cap  as  he  sat  down.  The  pair  returned  the  saluta 
tion  and  continued  their  conversation.  The  student  was  of  the 
Rhine  Korps,  a  tall  saturnine  youth,  evidently  strong  and  active, 
but  very  sallow  and  lean.  Greif  knew  him  by  sight.  His  name 
was  Bauer,  and  he  had  of  late  gained  a  considerable  reputation 
as  a  fighter.  Rex  glanced  curiously  at  him  once,  and  then,  as 
though  one  look  had  been  enough  to  fix  his  mental  photograph, 
did  not  turn  his  eyes  towards  him  again.  Bauer  ordered  a 
measure  of  beer,  lighted  a  black  cigar  and  leaned  back  against 
the  wall,  gloomily  eyeing  the  people  at  more  distant  tables. 
He  looked  like  a  man  in  a  singularly  bad  humour,  to  whom  any 
piece  of  mischief  would  be  a  welcome  diversion.  Rex  aban 
doned  his  sketch  of  Greif's  head,  looked  surreptitiously  at  his 
watch  and  then  began  to  draw  circles  and  figures  instead. 
Presently  he  slipped  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  the 
almanac  he  always  carried  about  him. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  asked  Greif,  interrupting  himself  in 
the  midst  of  what  he  had  been  saying. 

"Nothing  particular,"  answered  Rex.  "Go  on.  I  am 
listening." 

"  I  was  saying,"  continued  Greif,  "  that  I  preferred  my  own 
part  of  the  country,  though  you  may  call  it  less  civilised  if  you 
please." 

"  It  is  natural,"  assented  Rex,  without  looking  up  from  his 
figure.  "  Every  man  prefers  the  place  where  he  is  born,  I  sup- 


98  GBEIFENSTEIN. 

pose,  provided  his  associations  with  it  are  agreeable."  Then  he 
unconsciously  spoke  a  few  words  to  himself,  unnoticed  by  Greif, 
"  Saturn  in  his  fall  and  term  —  cadent  —  peregrine." 

"  It  is  not  only  that,"  said  Greif.  "  Look  at  the  Rhine,  how 
flat  and  dull  and  ugly  it  grows  — 

He  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  close  presence  of  the 
other  student,  who  had  risen  and  stood  over  him,  touching  his 
cap  and  bowing  stiffly. 

" Excuse  me,"  he  said  in  a  harsh  voice,  "my name  is  Bauer  — 
from  Cologne  —  I  must  beg  you  not  to  insult  the  Rhine  in  a 
public  place,  nor  in  my  hearing." 

Greif  rose  to  his  feet  at  once,  very  much  astonished  that  any 
one  should  wish  to  quarrel  with  him  upon  such  a  pretence. 
Before  he  could  answer,  however,  Rex  anticipated  him  by  ad 
dressing  the  student  in  a  tone  that  rang  through  the  broad  room. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  silly  boy !  "  he  said,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  they  had  become  friends  Greif  recognised  the  angry 
accents  he  had  heard  through  the  door  when  he  had  first  gone 
to  Rex's  lodging. 

"  Prosit !  "  growled  Bauer.     "  Who  are  you,  if  you  please  ?  " 

"My  name  is  Rex.  My  friends  the  Swabians  will  manage 
this  affair." 

"  I  also  desire  to  cross  swords  with  you,"  said  Greifenstein 
politely,  using  a  stock  phrase. 

"  Prosit !  "  growled  Bauer  again.  He  took  the  card  Rex 
offered  him,  and  then,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  salute,  turned 
on  his  heel  and  walked  away. 

Greif  remained  standing  during  some  seconds,  gazing  after 
the  departing  student.  His  face  expressed  his  annoyance  at 
the  quarrel,  and  a  shade  of  anger  darkened  its  usual  radiance. 

"  Sit  down,"  suggested  Rex  quietly. 

"  We  must  be  off  at  once,"  said  Greif,  mechanically  resuming 
his  seat.  "  There  is  to  be  fighting  to-morrow  morning,  a  dozen 
duels  or  more,  and  I  will  settle  with  that  fellow  before  break 
fast." 

"  That  is  to  say,  I  will,"  observed  the  other,  putting  his  pencil 
and  his  almanac  into  his  pocket. 

"You?"  exclaimed  Greif  in  surprise. 

"Why  not?  I  can  demand  it.  I  insulted  him  roundly,  be 
fore  you  challenged  him." 


GREIFENSTEIN.  99 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you,  Rex,  a  sober  old  student  of 
Heaven  knows  how  many  semesters,  want  to  go  out  and  drum 
with  schldgers  like  one  of  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  And  I  request  you  as  the  head  of  your  Korps  to 
arrange  the  matter  for  to-morrow  morning." 

"You  insist?  How  long  is  it  since  you  have  fenced?  I 
should  be  sorry  for  that  brown  beard  of  yours,  if  a  deep-carte 
necessitated  shaving  half  of  it."  Greif  laughed  merrily  at  the 
idea,  and  Rex  smiled. 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  I  insist.  Never  mind  my  beard.  That 
young  man  will  not  fight  another  round  for  many  a  long  semes 
ter  after  I  have  done  with  him." 

"  Were  you  such  a  famous  schlager  formerly  ?  " 

"  No.     Nothing  especial.     But  I  can  settle  Herr  Bauer." 

"  I  do  not  know  about  that,"  said  Greif  shaking  his  head. 
"  He  is  one  of  the  best.  He  came  here  expressly  to  pick  a  quar 
rel  with  me,  who  am  supposed  to  be  the  best  in  the  University. 
He  is  in  search  of  a  reputation.  You  had  better  be  careful." 

"  Never  fear.  Go  and  arrange  matters.  I  will  stay  here  till 
you  come  back.  It  is  too  early  to  go  home  yet." 

Greif  was  amazed  at  his  friend's  determination,  though  he 
had  no  choice  but  to  do  as  he  was  requested.  He  walked  quickly 
towards  the  brewery,  where  he  was  sure  of  rinding  the  second  in 
charge  of  his  Korps,  and  probably  a  dozen  others.  At  every 
step  the  situation  seemed  more  disagreeable,  and  more  wholly 
unaccountable.  He  could  not  imagine  why  Rex  should  have 
cared  to  mix  in  the  quarrel,  and  he  was  annoyed  at  not  being 
able  to  settle  matters  with  Bauer  at  once.  His  mind  was  still 
confused,  when  he  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  room  in  which 
his  companions  were  sitting.  He  was  hailed  by  a  chorus  of 
joyful  cries. 

A  couple  of  novices  sprang  forward  to  help  him  to  remove  his 
heavy  overcoat.  Another  hastened  to  get  his  favourite  drinking- 
cup  filled  with  beer.  The  second  in  charge,  a  burly  fellow  with 
many  scars  on  his  face  and  a  hand  like  a  Westphalia  ham,  made 
a  place  for  the  chief  next  to  his  own. 

"  We  have  had  a  row,"  Greif  remarked  when  he  was  seated 
at  the  board  and  had  drunk  a  health  to  all  present. 

"  Ha,  that  is  a  good  thing !  "  laughed  the  second.  "  Tell  us 
all  about  it."  He  drank  what  remained  in  his  huge  measure 


100  GREIFEN  STEIN. 

and  handed  the  mug  to  a  fox  to  be  filled.  Then  he  took  a  good 
puff  at  his  pipe  and  settled  himself  in  an  attitude  of  attention. 

"  We  have  had  a  row  at  the  Palmengarten,"  said  Greif.  "  Rex 
and  I  — 

"  You  have  quarrelled  with  Rex  ? "  interrupted  the  second. 
He  and  all  his  companions  detested  the  man  because  he  took 
Greif  away  from  them.  There  was  a  gleam  of  hope  for  the 
chief  if  he  had  quarrelled  with  his  Philistine  acquaintance,  and 
all  present  exchanged  significant  glances. 

"No.  That  is  not  it.  A  fellow  of  the  Rhine  Korps  has 
quarrelled  with  both  of  us.  He  says  his  name  is  Bauer.  Rex 
called  him  a  silly  boy  and  told  him  to  hold  his  tongue  before  I 
could  speak." 

"  Rex ! "  exclaimed  all  the  students  in  chorus. 

"  Ha,  that  is  a  good  thing !  "  laughed  the  second,  blowing  the 
foam  from  his  ale.  "  Provided  he  will  fight,"  he  added  before 
he  drank. 

"Rex  is  my  friend,"  said  Greif  quietly. 

The  murmurs  subsided  as  though  by  magic,  and  the  burly 
second  set  down  his  measure  almost  untasted. 

"  I  wanted  to  fight  the  man  first,"  continued  Greif,  "  but  Rex 
objected  and  appealed  to  me  as  the  head  of  a  Korps  to  get  the 
matter  settled  at  once.  He  wants  to  fight  to-morrow  morning 
with  the  rest." 

"  Prosit !  "  laughed  the  second. 

"  We  thought  he  was  a  Philistine  !  He  must  be  forty  years 
old  !  What  a  sight  it  will  be  !  "  cried  a  dozen  voices. 

"  As  he  demands  it,  we  must  oblige  him,"  observed  Greif. 

"  A  good  thing !  A  very  good  thing !  "  exclaimed  the  second 
more  solemnly  than  before.  He  rarely  said  much  else,  and  his 
hand  was  infinitely  more  eloquent  than  his  tongue. 

"I  hope  it  is,"  said  Greif.  "This  is  your  affair.  You  had 
better  go  and  see  the  second  of  the  Rhine  Korps  at  once.  Rex 
is  waiting  for  the  answer  at  the  Palmengarten.  Remember  he 
is  determined  to  fight  at  once." 

"  He  shall  drum  till  the  hair  flies  about  the  place,"  answered 
the  second,  with  an  unusual  flight  of  rhetoric,  as  he  slipped  on 
his  overcoat  and  went  out. 

"You  are  not  going?"  asked  the  students  as  Greif  showed 
signs  of  following  his  brother-officer. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  101 

"I  cannot  leave  Rex  waiting,"  objected  Greif. 

"Send  for  him  to  come  here !  If  he  really  means  to  fight,  he 
is  not  such  a  Philistine  as  we  thought !  "  cried  two  or  three. 

"  If  you  like,  I  will  send  for  him,"  answered  Greif.  "  Here, 
little  fox !  "  he  exclaimed,  addressing  a  beardless  youth  of  vast 
proportions  who  sat  silent  at  the  end  of  the  table.  "  Go  to  the 
Palmengarten  and  say  that  Greifenstein  wishes  Herr  Rex  to 
come  here.  Introduce  yourself  properly  before  speaking  to 
him." 

The  huge-limbed  boy  rose  without  a  word,  gravely  saluted 
and  left  the  room.  Greif  was  his  idol,  the  type  which  he  aspired 
to  imitate,  and  he  obeyed  him  like  a  lamb. 

"So  Rex  means  to  fight,"  remarked  one  of  the  young  men, 
who  sat  opposite  to  Greif .  "  Was  he  ever  in  a  Korps  ?  " 

"  Possibly,"  answered  the  chief. 

" '  The  Pinschgau  lads  went  out  to  fight,' "  hummed  the 
student  rather  derisively,  but  he  did  not  proceed  further  than 
the  first  line  of  the  old  song.  Some  of  the  others  laughed,  and 
all  smiled  at  the  allusion  to  the  comic  battle. 

"  Look  here,  my  good  Korps  brothers,"  said  Greif  in  his 
dominating  tones,  "  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is.  Rex  means  to 
have  it  out  with  Bauer  to-morrow  morning.  If  he  turns  out  a 
coward  and  backs  down  the  ground  before  the  Rhine  fellow, 
you  can  make  game  of  him  as  you  please,  and  you  know  very 
well  that  I  shall  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him,  and  that  he 
will  be  suspended  from  all  intercourse  with  the  Korps.  I  have 
my  own  ideas  about  what  he  will  do,  though  Bauer  is  a  devil 
at  deep-carte  and  has  a  long  arm.  Until  the  question  is  settled 
vou  have  no  right  to  laugh  at  an  honourable  man  who  is  to  be 
our  guest-at-arms,  because  he  is  not  a  Korps  student.  He  is  our 
guest  as  much  as  the  chief  of  the  Heidelberg  Saxo-Prussians 
was  when  he  came  over  last  spring  to  fight  the  first  in  charge 
of  the  Franks.  Every  man  who  wants  to  fight  deserves  respect 
until  he  has  shown  that  he  is  afraid  to  stand  by  his  words. 
There  —  that  is  all  I  have  to  say,  and  you  know  I  am  right. 
Here  is  a  full  measure  to  the  health  of  all  good  Swabians,  and 
may  the  yellow  and  black  schlager  do  good  work  whether  in 
the  hands  of  guest  or  fellow.  One,  two  and  three !  Suabia 
Hoch ! " 

"  Hoch  !     Hoch !     Hoch  ! "  roared  twenty  lusty  young  voices. 


102  GREIFENSTEIN. 

The  speech  had  produced  its  effect,  as  Greif's  speeches  usually 
did,  and  every  student  drained  his  cup  to  the  toast  with  a  good 
will. 

"  But  after  all,"  said  the  young  fellow  who  had  hummed  the 
offensive  song,  "your  friend  has  not  handled  a  schldger  since 
the  days  of  the  flood.  It  is  not  likely  that  he  can  get  the  better 
of  such  a  fellow  as  Bauer  —  may  the  incarnate  thunder  fly  into 
his  body  !  I  can  feel  that  splinter  in  my  jaw  to  this  day  !  " 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Greif,  "one  of  two  things  will  happen. 
Either  Rex  will  give  Bauer  a  dose,  and  in  that  case  you  will 
feel  better ;  or  else  Bauer  will  set  a  deep-carte  into  Rex's  jaw, 
exactly  where  he  hit  you,  and  if  that  happens  you  will  feel  that 
you  are  not  alone  in  your  misfortunes,  which  is  also  a  certain 
satisfaction." 

"You  seem  remarkably  hopeful  about  Rex,"  observed  the 
student.  "Here  he  comes,"  he  added  as  the  door  opened  and 
Rex  appeared  attended  by  the  fox. 

Every  one  rose,  as  usual  when  a  visitor  appears  under  such 
circumstances.  Rex  bowed  and  smiled  serenely.  He  had  often 
been  a  guest  of  the  Swabians  and  knew  all  present.  In  a  few 
moments  he  was  seated  on  the  chief's  right  hand.  Greif  rapped 
on  the  table. 

"  Korps  brothers,"  he  said,  "  our  friend  Rex  visits  us  in  a  new 
capacity.  He  comes  not  as  usual  to  share  the  drinking-horn 
and  the  yellow-black  song-book.  He  is  with  us  to-day  as  a 
guest-at-arms.  Let  us  drink  to  his  especial  welfare." 

"To  your  especial  welfare,"  said  each  student,  holding  his 
cup  out  towards  Rex,  and  then  drinking  a  short  draught. 

"  I  revenge  myself  immediately,"  answered  Rex,  rising  as  he 
moved  his  glass  in  a  circle  and  glanced  round  the  table.  The 
phrases  are  consecrated  by  immemorial  usage.  He  drank,  bowed 
and  resumed  his  seat.  He  knew  well  enough  that  the  Swabians 
did  not  like  him  over  well,  but  he  was  determined  that,  sooner 
or  later,  they  should  change  their  minds. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  said  the  same  student  who  had  been 
talking  with  Greif,  "  upon  your  quarrel  with  Bauer.  You  could 
not  have  picked  out  a  man  whom  I  detest  more  cordially. 
Observe  this  slash  in  my  jaw  —  two  bone  splinters,  an  artery 
and  nine  stitches.  It  is  a  reminiscence,  not  dear  but  near." 

"  A  fine  cut,"  answered  Rex,  gravely  examining  the  scar.    «  A 


GREIFENSTEIN.  103 

regular  renommir  schmiss,  a  gash  to  boast  of.  A  deep-carte,  I 
suppose  ? " 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  other,  with  the  superiority  of  a  man 
who 'knows  the  exact  part  of  the  face  exposed  to  each  cut.  "It 
could  not  be  anything  else.  He  has  the  most  surprising  limber- 
ness  of  wrist,  and  he  never  hits  the  bandage  by  mistake  — 
never !  You  strike  high  tierce  like  lightning  and  your  blade 
is  back  in  guard  —  oh  yes!  but  before  you  are  there  his  deep- 
carte  sits  in  the  middle  of  your  cheek.  Whatever  you  do,  it  is 
the  same." 

Every  one  was  listening,  and  Greif  frowned  at  the  speaker, 
whose  intention  was  evident.  He  wanted  to  frighten  Rex  by  an 
account  of  his  adversary's  prowess.  Rex  looked  grave  but  did 
not  appear  in  the  least  disturbed. 

"So?"  he  ejaculated.  "Really!  Well,  I  can  put  a  silver 
thaler  in  my  cheek  and  save  my  teeth,  at  all  events.  They  are 
very  good." 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  this  response. 

"  But  that  is  contrary  to  the  code,"  objected  the  student, 
laughing  with  the  rest.  He  was  not  an  ill-humoured  man  in 
reality. 

"  Yes  —  I  was  joking,"  said  Rex.  "  But  I  once  saw  a  man 
fight  with  an  iron  nose  on  his  face." 

"  How  was  that  ?  "  was  asked  by  every  one. 

"  He  was  a  brave  fellow  of  the  right  sort,"  said  Rex,  "  but  he 
had  a  long  nose  and  a  short  arm.  In  fact  he  had  formed  the 
habit  of  parrying  with  his  nose,  like  a  Greek  statue  —  you 
know,  all  those  they  find  have  had  their  noses  knocked  off  by 
Turks.  Now  the  nose  is  a  noble  feature,  and  is  of  great  service 
to  man,  when  he  wants  to  find  out  whether  he  is  in  Italy  or 
Germany.  But  as  a  weapon  of  defence  it  leaves  much  to  be 
desired.  The  man  of  whom  I  am  telling  you  had  grown  so 
much  used  to  using  it  in  this  way,  that  whenever  he  saw  any 
thing  coming  in  the  shape  of  a  carte  he  thrust  it  forward  as 
naturally  as  a  pig  does  when  he  sees  an  acorn.  After  a  couple 
of  semesters  the  cartes  sat  on  his  nose  from  bridge  to  tip,  one 
after  the  other,  like  the  days  of  the  week  in  a  calendar.  But 
when  the  third  semester  began,  and  the  cartes  began  to  fall  too 
near  together,  and  sometimes  two  in  the  same  place,  the  doctors 
said  that  the  nose  was  worn-out,  though  it  had  once  been  good. 


104  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

And  the  man  told  the  second  in  charge,  and  the  second  told  the 
first,  and  the  first  laid  the  matter  before  the  assembled  Korps. 
Thereupon  the  whole  Seniorum  Conventus  sat  in  solemn  com 
mittee  upon  this  war-worn  nose,  and  decided  that  its  owner 
need  fight  no  more.  But  he  was  not  only  brave  ;  he  possessed 
the  invention  of  Prometheus,  combined  with  the  diabolical 
sense  of  humour  which  so  much  distinguished  the  late  Mephis- 
topheles.  He  offered  to  go  on  fighting  if  he  might  be  allowed 
an  iron  nose.  Goetz  of  Berlichingen,  he  said,  had  won  battles 
with  an  iron  hand,  and  the  case  was  analogous.  The  proposi 
tion  was  put  to  the  vote  and  carried  unanimously  amidst  thun 
ders  of  applause.  The  iron  nose  was  made  and  fitted  to  the 
iron  eye-pieces,  and  my  friend  appeared  on  the  fighting  ground 
looking  like  a  figure  of  Kladderadatsch  disguised  as  Arminius. 
He  wore  out  two  iron  noses  while  he  remained  in  the  Korps, 
but  the  destruction  of  the  enemy's  weapons  more  than  counter 
balanced  this  trifling  expense.  When  he  left,  his  armour  was 
attached  to  a  life-sized  photograph  of  his  head,  which  hangs  to 
this  day  above  two  crossed  rapiers  in  the  Kneipe.  That  is  the 
history  of  the  man  with  the  iron  nose." 

There  had  been  much  half-suppressed  laughter  while  Rex 
was  telling  his  story,  and  when  he  had  finished,  the  students 
roared  with  delight.  Rex  had  never  before  given  himself  so 
much  trouble  to  amuse  them,  and  the  effect  of  his  narrative 
was  immense. 

"  He  talks  as  if  he  knew  something  about  it,"  said  one,  nudg 
ing  his  neighbour. 

"  Perhaps  he  helped  to  wear  out  the  nose,"  answered  the  other 
still  laughing. 

"  A  health  to  you  all,"  cried  Rex,  draining  his  full  measure. 
"  And  may  none  of  you  parry  carte  with  the  proboscis,"  he 
added,  as  he  set  down  the  empty  cup. 

"  Ha !  That  is  a  good  thing  !  "  laughed  the  voice  of  the 
burly  second  as  he  entered  the  room,  his  face  beaming  with 
delight.  "  Out  with  the  foxes,  there  is  business  here  for  a  few 
minutes." 

The  foxes,  who  were  not  privileged  to  hear  the  deliberations  of 
their  elders  upon  such  grave  matters,  rose  together  and  filed 
out,  carrying  their  pipes  and  drinking-cups  with  them.  Then 
the  second  sat  down  in  his  vacant  place. 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Greif .     "  Is  it  all  settled." 


GREIFENSTEIN.  105 

"  Yes.  The  cattle  wanted  to  fight  you  first.  I  said  the 
Philistine  insisted  —  excuse  me,  no  offence.  Good.  Now  — 
that  was  all." 

The  second  buried  his  nose  in  a  foaming  tankard. 

"  Is  it  for  to-morrow  morning  ?  "  asked  Rex  calmly. 

"  Palmengarten,  back  entrance,  four  sharp." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Greif.  "  Are  we  to  fight  in 
the  Palmengarten,  in  the  restaurant?" 

The  second  nodded,  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"  Poetic,"  he  observed.  "  Marble  floor  —  fountain  playing  — 
palm  trees  in  background." 

"  Then  we  must  go  there  at  that  hour  so  as  not  to  be  seen  ?  " 

"  The  Poodle  thinks  it  is  at  Schneckenwinkel,  and  is  going 
out  by  the  early  train  to  lie  in  wait,"  chuckled  the  bui'ly  student. 
"  There  he  will  sit  all  the  morning  like  a  sparrow  limed  on  a 
twig." 

"  Have  we  any  other  pairs  ?  "  asked  Greif  absently. 

"  Three  others.  Two  foxes  and  Hollenstein.  He  is  gone  to 
bed  and  I  am  going  to  send  the  foxes  after  him.  We  can  make 
a  night  of  it,  if  you  like." 

"  I  will  stay  with  you,"  said  Rex,  who  seemed  jovially  inclined. 

Neither  Greif  nor  the  second  thought  it  their  business  to  sug 
gest  that  their  combatant  had  better  get  some  rest  before  the 
battle.  When  two  o'clock  struck,  Rex  was  teaching  them  all  a 
new  song,  which  was  not  in  the  book,  his  clear  strong  voice 
ringing  out  steadily  and  tunefully  through  the  smoky  chamber, 
his  smooth  complexion  neither  flushed  nor  pale  from  the  night's 
carousal,  his  stony  eyes  as  colourless  and  forbidding,  as  his  smile 
was  genial  and  unaffeeted. 

As  they  rose  to  go,  he  caught  sight  of  a  huge  silver-mounted 
horn  that  hung  behind  his  chair. 

"  I  will  drink  that  out  to-morrow  night,  with  your  permission," 
he  said  with  a  light  laugh. 

"  Bravo  ! "  shouted  the  excited  chorus. 

"  He  is  a  little  drunk,"  whispered  the  student  whom  Bauer 
had  wounded,  addressing  his  neighbour. 

"  Or  a  boaster,  who  will  back  down  the  floor,"  answered  the 
other  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  I  hope  you  may  do  it,"  said  the  first  speaker  aloud  and  turn 
ing  to  Rex.  "  If  you  do,  I  will  empty  it  after  you  to  your  health, 
and  so  will  every  Swabian  here." 


106  GKEIFENSTELN. 

"  Ay,  that  will  we !  "  exclaimed  Greif ,  and  the  others  joined 
readily  in  the  promise.  Seeing  how  probable  it  was  that  by  the 
next  evening  Rex  would  be  in  bed,  with  a  bag  of  ice  on  his  head, 
it  was  not  likely  that  they  would  be  called  upon  to  perform  the 
feat. 

"  It  is  a  beer-oath  then  !  "  said  Rex.     "  Let  us  go  and  fight." 
And  they  filed  out  into  the  narrow  street,  silently  and  quietly, 
in  fear  of  attracting  attention  to  their  movements. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  107 


CHAPTEE   IX. 

THE  scene  presented  by  the  Palmengarten  restaurant  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning  was  extremely  strange.  Since  Greif  and 
Rex  had  dined  together  in  the  place  on  the  previous  evening,  the 
arrangement  of  the  hall  had  been  considerably  changed.  The 
palms  alone  remained  in  their  places  around  the  four  sides,  and 
their  long  spiked  leaves  and  gigantic  fans  cast  fantastic  shadows 
under  the  brilliant  gaslight.  The  broad  marble  floor  was  cleared 
of  furniture  and  strewn  with  sawdust,  some  fifty  chairs  being 
arranged  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  around  and  behind  the 
fountain,  whose  tiny  stream  rose  high  into  the  air  and  tinkled 
as  it  fell  back  again  into  the  basin  below.  A  few  small  tables 
remained  in  the  corners.  The  place  was  lighted  by  a  corona  of 
gas-jets,  and  was  on  the  whole  as  bright  and  roomy  a  fencing 
ground  as  the  heart  of  a  Korps  student  could  desire.  The  pro 
prietor,  who  entered  with  enthusiasm  into  the  scheme,  moved 
about,  followed  by  a  confidential  waiter  in  his  white  apron, 
examining  every  detail,  adjusting  the  position  of  the  tables  and 
chairs,  turning  the  principal  key  of  the  gas-jets  a  little  so  as  to 
obtain  the  best  possible  flame,  and  every  now  and  then  running 
to  the  door  which  opened  to  the  outer  chambers,  as  he  fancied 
that  he  heard  some  one  tapping  at  the  street  entrance.  The 
whole  effect  of  the  preparations  suggested  something  between  a 
concert  and  the  reception  of  a  deputation,  and  no  one  would 
have  suspected  that  a  party  of  young  men  were  about  to  engage 
in  a  serious  tournament  amidst  the  fantastic  decorations  and 
the  shadows  of  the  beautiful  plants,  beneath  the  flood  of  light 
that  bathed  everything  in  warm  lustre. 

Presently  the  expected  signal  was  heard,  and  the  proprietor 
rushed  breathlessly  to  the  outer  door.  Greif,  Rex  and  their 
companions  entered  swiftly  and  silently,  followed  by  the  liveried 
servant  of  the  Korps  who  carried  an  extraordinary  collection  of 
bags  and  bundles,  which  he  dropped  upon  the  floor  with  a  grunt 
of  satisfaction  as  soon  as  he  was  inside.  Then  he  took  up  his 


108  GREIFENSTEIK 

burden  again,  at  the  command  of  the  burly  second,  and  carried 
his  traps  into  the  illuminated  hall.  With  the  speed  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  his  work  he  began  to  unpack  everything,  laying 
out  the  basket-hilts  of  the  rapiers,  adorned  with  battered  colours, 
side  by  side,  and  next  to  them  half  a  dozen  bright  blades  freshly 
ground  and  cleaned,  each  with  its  well  oiled  screw-nut  upon  the 
rough  end  that  was  to  run  through  the  guard,  while  the  small 
iron  wrench  was  placed  in  readiness  at  hand.  Then  three  leath 
ern  jerkins  were  taken  from  their  sacks  and  examined  to  see 
whether  every  string  and  buckle  was  in  order,  then  the  arm  and 
neck  bandages,  the  iron  eye-pieces,  the  gauntlets  padded  in  the 
wrist,  the  long  gloves  and  stout  caps  with  leathern  visors  worn 
by  the  seconds,  the  regulation  shirts  for  the  combatants,  the 
bottle  of  spirits  for  rubbing  their  tired  arms,  a  couple  of  sponges, 
and  a  dozen  trifles  of  all  sorts  —  in  a  word,  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  student  warfare. 

The  next  person  to  appear  upon  the  ground  was  the  surgeon, 
a  young  man  with  a  young  beard,  who  had  not  been  many 
years  out  of  a  Korps  himself,  and  who  understood  by  experience 
the  treatment  of  every  scratch  and  wound  that  a  rapier  can 
inflict.  He  also  carried  a  bag,  though  a  small  one,  and  began 
to  lay  out  his  instruments  in  a  business-like  fashion  upon  the 
table  reserved  for  his  use.  Then  there  was  another  summons 
from  the  door  and  the  members  of  the  Rhine  Korps  filed  silently 
in,  their  dark  blue  caps  contrasting  oddly  with  the  brilliant 
yellow  of  the  Swabians.  They  saluted  gravely  and  kept 
together  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  Next  came  the 
Westphalians,  in  green  caps,  and  the  Saxons  with  black  ones,  till 
nearly  a  hundred  students  filled  half  the  available  space  in  the 
hall.  Then  the  seconds  in  charge  met  together  in  the  centre 
and  looked  over  their  lists  of  duels.  There  was  a  moment  of 
total  silence  in  the  chamber,  until  the  result  was  known,  for 
no  one  could  tell  exactly  which  duel  would  be  fought  first. 
Then  the  four  separated  again  and  returned  quickly  to  their 
comrades. 

"  We  are  to  let  fly  first,"  said  the  Swabian  second  to  his 
chief.  "Now,  Hollenstein,  old  man,  jump  into  your  drumming 
skin  !  " 

"  You  will  be  next,"  said  Greif  turning  to  Rex  and  speaking 
in  an  undertone.  "  You  had  better  dress  while  Hollenstein  is 
out  with  the  Saxon.  The  affair  will  not  last  long,  I  fancy." 


GREIFENSTEEST.  109 

Hollenstein,  a  thickset  fellow  with  a  baby's  complexion,  but 
whose  sharp  eye  showed  his  temper,  went  quietly  about  the 
operation  of  dressing,  assisted  by  a  couple  of  foxes,  the  second 
in  charge  and  the  Korps  servant,  who  was  as  expert  in  prepara 
tions  for  duels  as  an  English  valet  in  dressing  his  master  for 
following  the  hounds.  In  ten  minutes  everything  was  ready, 
the  seconds  on  each  side  drew  on  their  gloves,  settled  the  long 
visors  of  their  caps  well  over  their  eyes,  took  their  blunt  rapiers 
in  hand  and  stepped  forward.  The  witnesses  of  each  party, 
also  gloved,  stood  on  the  left  of  the  combatants,  it  being  their 
duty  to  watch  the  blades,  and  to  see  whether  either  fencer 
backed  down  the  ground.  The  umpire  took  out  his  pocket- 
book  and  pencil  and  stop-watch,  and  placed  himself  where  he 
could  look  across  the  fighting.  The  armed  fighters  stood  up 
face  to  face  at  half  the  length  of  the  room,  a  novice  supporting 
the  right  arm  of  each  high  in  air. 

"  Paukanten  parat?  Are  the  combatants  ready?"  inquired 
the  umpire,  who  was  the  chief  of  the  Westphalians. 

"  Parat !  Ready !  "  was  answered  from  both  sides  simulta 
neously. 

"  Silence !  "  cried  the  umpire.  "  The  duel  begins.  Auf  die 
Mensur  !  Fertig  !  Los  ! " 

Hollenstein  and  his  adversary  walked  forward,  accompanied 
by  their  seconds.  Each  struck  a  formal  tierce  cut  at  the  other, 
and  a  halt  was  cried.  They  scarcely  retired  and  the  umpire 
repeated  the  words  "  To  the  fight !  Ready !  Go  !  "  and  the 
duel  began  in  earnest.  Both  were  accomplished  swordsmen, 
and  the  combat  promised  to  be  a  long  one.  They  exhibited 
to  the  admiring  spectators  every  intricacy  of  schlager  fencing, 
in  all  its  wonderful  neatness  and  quickness  of  cut  and  parry. 
From  time  to  time  a  halt  was  called,  and  each  man  retired  to 
his  original  place,  his  right  arm  being  caught  and  held  in  air 
by  the  "  bearing-fox,"  as  the  novice  is  called  whose  business  it 
is  to  fill  the  office.  The  object  of  this  proceeding  is  to  prevent 
a  rush  of  blood  to  the  arm,  which  might  cause  pain  and 
numbness  in  the  member  and  interfere  with  the  combatant's 
quickness. 

"A  couple  of  good  fencers,"' remarked  Rex  as  he  rose  from 
his  chair  and  went  to  prepare  himself  for  what  was  before  him. 

"You  will  see  what  will  happen,"  answered  Greif  with  a 
smile  of  confidence  in  his  comrade. 


110  GREIFENSTEIN". 

The  "drumming,"  as  the  students  call  it,  proceeded  for 
some  minutes,  and  nothing  was  heard  in  the  hall  but  the  sharp 
whistle  and  ring  of  the  blades  and  the  sound  of  shuffling  feet 
upon  the  sawdust-covered  floor.  All  at  once  Hbllenstein  turned 
his  hand  completely  round  upon  his  wrist  in  the  act  of  striking 
what  is  called  a  deep-carte,  remained  a  moment  in  this  singular 
position,  which  seemed  to  confuse  his  adversary,  and  then  as  the 
latter  was  making  up  his  mind  what  to  do,  suddenly  finished 
the  movement  and  returned  to  his  guard  in  time  to  parry  the 
inevitable  tierce.  A  thin  line  of  scarlet  instantly  appeared 
upon  the  Saxon's  face,  straight  across  his  left  cheek. 

"  Halt !  "  cried  both  seconds  at  once. 

"  She  sat !  "  exclaimed  the  second  of  the  Swabians,  throwing 
down  his  blunt  sword  and  making  for  a  goblet  of  beer  that  was 
placed  in  readiness  for  him,  as  though  he  took  no  further  inter 
est  in  the  proceedings.  Hollenstein  stood  as  usual  with  his  arm 
supported  by  the  novice,  while  the  Saxon  was  examined  by  the 
surgeon. 

"  Abf  uhr !  "  said  the  latter.  The  word  means  that  the  wounded 
man  must  be  removed. 

"  Please  to  declare  the  Abfuhr !  "  said  the  Swabian  second 
relinquishing  his  glass  and  turning  sharply  to  the  umpire. 

"  Saxonia  is  led  away,"  declared  the  Westphalian  chief,  mak 
ing  a  note  of  the  fact  in  his  pocket-book,  and  shutting  up  his 
watch. 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking,  Hollenstein  had  given  up  his 
sword  and  was  beginning  to  disarm,  while  a  fox  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  placid  pink  face. 

"  Nicely  done,  old  man,"  said  Greif ,  coming  up  to  him. 

"I  like  that  way  of  doing  it,  do  not  you?"  inquired  Hollen 
stein  with  a  childlike  smile.  "I  practised  all  last  summer  on 
my  father's  orderly.  You  know  we  always  keep  fencing  things 
at  home." 

"  And  how  did  the  soldier  like  it  ?  "  asked  Greif  with  a  laugh. 

"Better  than  you  would,"  replied  the  other  laughing,  too. 
"  He  is  a  clever  churl  and  has  discovered  the  answer  to  the  at 
tack.  Give  me  some  beer,  little  fox  !  " 

The  novice  obeyed,  and  a  Homeric  draught  interrupted  the 
interview.  Greif  turned  to  Rex,  upon  whose  face  the  iron  eye 
pieces  were  being  adjusted.  All  the  Swabians  present  were 
collected  around  him,  excepting  the  second,  who  sat  in  solitary 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  Ill 

glory  by  his  beer,  opposite  the  Rhine  Korps,  awaiting  events 
with  stolid  indifference. 

"  Take  care !  "  said  Greif  whispering  into  the  ear  of  his  friend. 
"  I  have  never  seen  you  fence,  and  Bauer's  cartes  are  famous." 

"  Remember  the  big  horn ! "  said  some  of  the  men  around 
him. 

"  I  will  not  forget  it,"  answered  Rex  smiling,  as  he  opened 
and  shut  his  hand  in  the  gauntlet,  and  then  held  out  the  palm 
to  be  chalked.  "  And  I  hope  you  will  not  forget  your  promises 
either,"  he  added. 

"  Will  you  not  have  a  glass  of  brandy?  "  asked  some  one  with 
a  scarcely  perceptible  tinge  of  irony. 

"  My  friend,"  replied  Rex,  turning  sharply  round  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  speaker's  voice,  "  exactly  fifteen  minutes  after  the 
word  '  Go,'  I  will  drink  a  bottle  of  champagne  with  you,  and  I 
should  be  greatly  obliged  if  you  would  direct  the  waiter  to  put 
the  wine  in  ice  at  once,  as  it  will  scarcely  be  cool  in  so  short  a 
time." 

"  Willingly,"  said  the  student  with  a  dry  laugh,  in  which  some 
of  the  bystanders  joined,  while  all  looked  curiously  at  the  man 
who  seemed  so  absolutely  sure  of  success.  Greif's  face  was 
grave,  however,  and  he  himself  selected  the  rapier  for  Rex's 
hand.  All  was  ready  and  the  adversaries  stood  up  in  their 
places.  Bauer,  the  Rhine  Korps  man,  was  an  ugly  sight.  The 
eye-pieces  gave  a  singularly  sinister  expression  to  his  sallow 
face,  and  his  disorderly  hair  looked  like  a  wig  of  twisted  black 
wire,  while  the  jerkin  he  wore  seemed  almost  dropping  from  his 
long,  sinewy  frame.  He  made  his  sharp  weapon  whistle  three 
or  four  times  in  the  air  and  tapped  his  foot  impatiently  upon 
the  marble  floor  as  though  anxious  to  begin.  Greif's  heart  beat 
quickly,  and  he  was  conscious  that  he  would  infinitely  rather 
fight  the  duel  himself. 

The  umpire  began  by  declaring  that  the  duel  was  between 
Herr  Bauer  of  the  Rhine  Korps  and  Herr  Rex,  who  fought  with 
Swabian  weapons. 

"  Formerly  of  the  Heidelberg  Saxo-Prussians,"  said  Rex 
quietly. 

Every  one  started  and  looked  at  him,  on  hearing  the  name  of 
the  most  renowned  Korps  in  Germany. 

"  With  a  charge  ?  "  inquired  the  umpire,  politely,  and  holding 
his  pencil  ready  to  enter  the  fact  upon  his  note-book. 


112  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  First,"  answered  Rex  laconically. 

The  students  looked  at  each  other  and  began  to  wonder  how 
it  was  possible  that  such  an  important  personage  as  a  former 
chief  of  the  Heidelberg  Saxo-Prussians  could  have  so  long  con 
cealed  his  identity.  But  the  umpire  did  not  wait,  though  he 
reflected  that  Rex  must  have  been  in  activity  a  very  long  time 
ago.  Of  course,  the  statement  must  be  true,  as  any  one  might 
verify  it  instantly  by  a  reference  to  the  registers. 

"  Paukanten  parat  ?  "  inquired  the  umpire. 

"  Parat ! " 

The  spectators  observed  that  Bauer's  first  tierce  was  more 
than  formal,  and  that  if  Rex's  guard  had  not  been  good,  it 
might  very  well  have  done  some  damage.  Rex's  fencing  was 
altogether  different  from  Hollenstein's.  He  seemed  to  possess 
neither  the  grace  nor  the  dexterity  which  distinguished  that 
gentle  swordsman,  although  in  figure  he  was  far  lighter  and 
more  actively  made.  And  yet  Bauer  could  not  get  at  him. 
He  was  one  of  those  fencers  who  seem  to  work  awkwardly,  but 
who  sometimes  puzzle  their  adversaries  more  than  any  profes 
sional  master  of  the  art.  His  movements  appeared  to  be  slow 
and  yet  they  were  never  behind  time,  and  he  had  a  curious 
instinct  about  what  was  coming.  Bauer's  famous  deep-cartes 
were  always  met  by  a  cut  which  at  once  parried  the  attack  and 
confused  the  striker.  Once  or  twice  Rex's  long  blade  shot  out 
above  his  adversary's  head  with  tremendous  force,  but  Bauer 
was  tall,  quick  and  accomplished,  and  the  attempt  did  not  suc 
ceed.  Greif  began  to  feel  that  the  match  was  by  no  means  an 
uneven  one,  and  he  breathed  more  freely. 

"  I  think  you  could  manage  it,  if  you  tried  harder,"  he 
whispered  to  Rex,  during  a  short  halt. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Rex.  "  What  do  you  expect? "  Even 
through  the  iron  eye-pieces  Greif  could  see  the  colourless,  stony 
stare  of  his  friend's  eyes. 

Greif  would  have  been  more  than  satisfied  if  the  duel  ended 
without  a  scratch  on  either  side,  and  such  a  result  would  have 
more  than  surprised  the  spectators  of  the  encounter.  Every  one 
present  knew  by  experience  that, in  sclduger  fencing  a  month's 
practice  is  worth  all  the  theory  and  skill  which  a  man  might 
possess  who  had  not  touched  a  rapier  for  years.  Nevertheless, 
as  the  encounter  proceeded,  and  both  remained  unhurt,  Greif 
regretted  that  Rex  should  have  boasted  that  Bauer  would  be 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  113 

disabled  and  laid  up  for  a  long  time.  Meanwhile  the  saturnine 
Rhine  man  grew  slowly  angry,  as  his  arm  became  wearied  by 
the  protracted  effort.  His  wii'y  locks  were  matted  with  perspi 
ration,  his  shaggy  brows  knit  themselves  into  an  ugly  frown, 
which  was  made  more  hideous  by  the  black  iron  spectacles,  he 
stamped  his  foot  angrily,  and  made  desperate  efforts  to  get  at 
Rex's  face  with  his  favourite  under-cut. 

"  I  am  going  to  try  now,"  said  Rex  during  the  next  halt,  and 
turning  his  head  to  Greif. 

He  went  forward  again,  and  every  one  noticed  that  his  rapier 
was  higher  than  usual  and  seemed  not  to  cover  him  at  all.  He 
brandished  it  in  the  air  in  a  way  that  looked  utterly  foodhardy. 
Bauer  came  on  furiously,  feeling  that  if  he  failed  now  he  must 
be  laughed  at  for  ever.  His  long  arm  turned  with  the  rapidity 
of  lightning,  and  every  one  saw  the  whistling  blade  flash 
towards  Rex's  unprotected  cheek.  To  the  amazement  of  all 
present  the  cut  did  not  take  effect.  There  was  a  loud  clash  of 
steel,  accompanied  by  a  harsh,  grating  noise.  With  irresistible 
fury  Rex  had  brought  down  his  weapon,  countering  in  carte, 
parrying  with  his  basket-hilt  and  then  tearing,  as.it  were,  the 
reverse  edge  of  his  flexible  blade  through  his  enemy's  face,  from 
forehead  to  chin. 

"  She  sat !  "  exclaimed  the  Swabian  second,  mechanically. 
But  instead  of  dropping  his  blunt  sword  and  making  for  his 
beer,  he  stood  open-mouth,  staring  stupidly  at  the  unfortunate 
Bauer,  as  though  he  could  not  believe  his  eyes.  The  surgeon 
ran  forward,  looked  at  the  wound  and  almost  immediately 
nodded  to  the  umpire. 

"  Rhenania  is  led  away !  "  said  the  latter,  in  the  midst  of  a 
dead  silence. 

It  would  have  been  contrary  to  custom  and  etiquette  for  the 
Swabians  to  manifest  any  noisy  satisfaction  at  the  result  of  the 
affair,  but  as  Rex  drew  back  he  was  surrounded  and  hemmed  in 
by  Greif's  comrades,  who  tore  the  rapier  from  his  grasp,  pressed 
his  gloved  hands,  untied  the  strings  and  loosed  the  buckles  of 
his  jerkin,  wiped  the  slight  perspiration  from  his  face,  and  di 
vested  him  of  all  his  defensive  accoutrements  almost  before  he 
had  breath  to  speak.  A  couple  of  novices  rubbed  his  arm,  while 
twenty  young  fellows  congratulated  him  in  an  undertone.  The 
two  who  were  nearest  were  the  student  whom  Bauer  had  for 
merly  hurt,  and  the  one  with  whom  Rex  had  promised  to  drink 


114  GREIFENSTBIN. 

the  wine.  The  latter  held  a  glass  of  champagne  to  the  con 
queror's  lips. 

"Your  health,"  said  Rex  as  he  drank.  "  It  is  not  too  cold  to 
drink,"  he  added  with  a  smile  when  he  had  tasted  the  liquid. 

"  With  a  little  practice,  you  would  have  to  drink  it  hot," 
laughed  the  other. 

"  You  must  teach  me  that  trick,"  said  the  rosy-cheeked  Hollen- 
stein.  "  It  is  the  best  I  ever  saw." 

"  The  Rhine  Korps  will  have  to  make  a  contract  for  buying 
iron  noses  wholesale,"  remarked  some  one  else,  referring  to  the 
story  Rex  had  told  on  the  previous  evening. 

Greif  stood  near  by,  looking  on,  with  undisguised  satisfaction, 
and  not  yet  altogether  recovered  from  his  surprise.  He  could 
see  at  a  glance  that  Rex's  position  with  regard  to  the  Korps  was 
wholly  changed,  and  that  henceforth  his  friend  was  likely  to  be 
almost  as  popular  as  himself.  The  fact  that  Rex  had  been 
chief  of  the  Saxo-Prussians  was  in  itself  a  sufficient  recommen 
dation  and  would  long  since  have  inspired  them  with  respect, 
had  Rex  chosen  to  disclose  his  former  dignity.  Greif  wondered 
why  he  had  been  silent,  but  on  the  whole  he  was  glad  that  the 
man  should  have  earned  popularity  by  an  exploit  rather  than 
upon  the  strength  of  his  former  importance. 

For  the  present,  conversation  was  impossible.  A  couple  of 
Greif's  novices  were  to  go  out  for  the  first  time,  and  it  was 
necessary  to  encourage  them  and  see  that  everything  went  well. 
Swabia  was  in  luck  on  that  day,  for  the  two  youths  acquitted 
themselves  honourably,  each  fighting  fifteen  rounds  without 
being  touched,  and  each  inflicting  a  couple  of  very  small 
scratches  upon  their  enemies. 

"A  white  day  for  the  Swabians,"  said  Greif,  when  he  at  last 
sat  down  to  a  sausage  and  a  glass  of  beer  for  breakfast. 

His  Korps  had  nothing  more  to  do  with  the  proceedings,  for 
they  had  no  more  duels  on  the  day's  list,  and  as  none  of  them 
had  been  hurt,  they  prepared  to  watch  the  subsequent  fights 
over  a  glass  of  beer,  collecting  themselves  round  Greif,  Rex,  and 
the  thirsty  second.  It  was  by  this  time  about  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  The  gas  burned  steadily  overhead  and  the  meet 
ing  of  arms  proceeded  as  regularly  and  quickly  as  any  Roman 
show  of  gladiators.  From  time  to  time  the  Korps  servants 
washed  the  blood-stained  marble  floor  and  threw  down  fresh 


GREIFENSTEIN.  115 

sawdust  for  the  next  encounter.  The  surgeon  and  the  wounded 
were  kept  out  of  sight  behind  the  plants,  and  nothing  disagree 
able  met  the  eye.  The  gleam  and  flashing  of  the  steel  swords 
under  the  yellow  light,  the  gay  colours  of  the  caps,  the  quick 
movements  of  combatants  and  seconds  were  all  pleasant  to  see 
against  the  background  of  stately  exotic  plants  which  made  the 
hall  look  like  a  great  conservatory. 

Greif  looked  at  it  all  and  enjoyed  it,  almost  wishing  that  this 
might  be  the  last  scene  of  the  kind  which  he  should  attend,  and 
that  he  might  always  have  the  impression  of  it  when  he  thought 
of  his  student  life,  so  different  from  the  dismal  meetings  that 
sometimes  took  place  in  deserted  barns,  or  in  outhouses  of 
country  inns.  In  some  ways  he  preferred  the  Palmengarten  as 
a  fighting  ground  to  the  forest  glades  in  which  the  summer 
duels  were  sometimes  fought.  He  felt,  as  he  sat  there,  chief  of 
his  Korps,  and  looked  up  to  by  every  one,  very  much  as  he 
fancied  a  Roman  emperor  must  have  felt  in  his  high  seat  over 
the  arena.  A  deep  sense  of  satisfaction  descended  upon  his 
soul.  He  had  the  best  place,  his  Korps  had  been  victorious,  his 
best  friend  had  highly  distinguished  himself,  justifying  Greif's 
own  opinion  of  him,  and  gaining  in  ten  minutes  the  respect  and 
admiration  of  all  his  comrades.  Rex  watched  him  in  silence, 
as  though  trying  to  guess  his  thoughts. 

"Yes,  you  are  a  lucky  fellow,"  he  said  at  last,  hitting  the 
mark  as  usual. 

The  words  chilled  Greif,  and  his  expression  changed.  All  at 
once,  in  that  crowded  place  of  meeting,  amidst  the  satisfaction 
of  victory  and  the  excitement  of  other  struggles,  the  memory 
of  his  home  in  the  dark  forest  rose  before  him  like  a  gloomy 
shadow.  His  mind  went  back  to  that  evening  when  Rex's  first 
prediction  had  been  so  suddenly  fulfilled,  and  then,  in  an 
instant,  it  flashed  upon  him  that  only  last  night  Rex  had  been 
drawing  circles  and  strange  figures  upon  the  marble  table  at 
the  moment  when  Bauer  had  approached  them.  He  turned  to 
his  friend  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  knew  it  by  the  figure,"  he  said.  "  That  is  the  reason 
you  were  so  confident." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Rex  quietly.     "  Of  course  I  did." 

"  It  is  true  that  you  are  a  first-rate  fencer,"  remarked  Greif 
doubtfully. 


116  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  Nothing  extraordinary.  The  man  had  not  a  chance,  from 
the  first,  especially  as  we  settled  the  matter  so  soon  after  the 
question  was  asked." 

"  What  question  ?  " 

"  The  question  I  asked  when  I  set  up  the  figure." 

Greif  was  silent.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  believe  in 
what  he  regarded  as  a  sham  science,  and  he  could  not  reconcile 
any  belief  in  such  absurdities  with  the  indubitable  fact  that 
Rex  was  a  most  enlightened  man,  learned  in  his  own  depart 
ment,  cultivated  in  mind,  a  scorner  of  old-fashioned  prejudices 
and  ideas,  distrustful  of  all  cheap  theories  and  of  all  scientific 
men  who  talked  eloquently  about  the  progress  of  learning. 
That  such  a  person  should  put  any  faith  in  astrology  was  a 
monstrous  incongruity.  And  yet  Rex  not  only  trusted  in  what 
he  pretended  to  foretell,  but  was  actually  willing  to  risk  serious 
personal  injuries  on  the  strength  of  his  divinations.  Greif 
thought  of  what  he  had  read  concerning  fanatics  and  the  almost 
incredible  good  fortune  which  sometimes  attended  them.  Then 
a  wild  desire  overcame  him  to  know  what  Rex  had  seen  in  the 
figure  on  that  memorable  night  which  had  brought  the  news  of 
Rieseneck's  intended  return. 

"  We  have  not  spoken  of  those  things  lately,"  he  said  after  a 
long  pause.  "Will  you  tell  me  what  it  is  that  must  happen  to 
me,  according  to  your  theory  ?  " 

"  There  are  some  things  of  which  it  is  best  not  to  talk  at  all," 
Rex  answered,  looking  earnestly  at  his  companion.  His  hard 
eyes  softened  a  little. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?  "  asked  Greif  with  an  attempt  to  laugh. 

"  It  is  as  bad  as  that ;  and  as  it  will  all  happen  through  no 
fault  of  yours,  and  since  nothing  which  you,  at  least,  can  do, 
could  prevent  it,  it  is  better  that  you  should  not  know." 

" You  will  not  tell  me?" 

"Not  unless  you  insist  upon  it,  and  you  will  not." 

"Why  not?  I  do  insist,  as  much  as  one  friend  can  with 
another."  Greif  could  not  quite  submit  to  Rex's  way  of  saying 
what  he  would  do,  or  would  not  do. 

"  There  are  good  reasons  why  you  should  not,"  returned  the 
latter  calmly.  "  In  the  first  place  we  are  good  friends,  and  if  I 
told  you  what  is  before  you,  it  would  be  impossible  not  to  injure 
our  amicable  relations.  You  feel  that,  as  well  as  I  do.  If  warn 
ing  could  help  you  in  the  least,  I  would  not  be  silent.  If  I  had 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  117 

any  advice  to  give  you,  I  would  offer  it,  at  the  risk  of  offending 
you.  You  know  that  in  your  heart  you  would  not  quite  believe 
me,  if  I  spoke,  and  that  you  would  always  fancy  I  had  some 
object  in  view,  until  all  were  accomplished.  Even  then  you 
might  never  forget  the  disagreeable  association  between  my 
personality  and  your  calamities.  I  prefer  to  remain  where  I 
am  in  your  estimation.  Besides,  why  should  I  cause  you  all 
the  pain  of  anticipation,  when  it  can  do  no  good?  After 
all,  nobody  is  infallible.  What  if  I  had  made  a  mistake  in 
my  calculations  ?  " 

"  That  is  true,"  answered  Greif,  though  his  tone  showed  some 
doubt.  Although  he  really  did  not  believe  that  calculation  or 
mathematics  of  any  sort  had  anything  to  do  with  Rex's  seeming 
knowledge  of  future  events,  the  possibility  of  a  mistake  seemed 
small  indeed,  when  Rex  himself  suggested  it. 

"  I  knew  you  would  not  insist,"  said  Rex.  "  Indeed  it  is  much 
better  to  watch  those  two  fellows  drumming  on  each  other's 
heads,  and  to  drink  our  early  draught  in  peace  without  specu 
lating  about  the  future.  Look  at  them !  It  is  nearly  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  and  not  a  scratch  yet,  though  they  hit  each  other 
with  every  tierce,  flat  as  a  soup-plate  falling  upon  a  millpond. 
But  it  is  a  pretty  sight." 

Greif  did  not  answer.  The  gladitorial  show  had  lost  its 
charms  for  him,  and  his  mind  brooded  gloomily  over  coming 
events.  The  sun  was  not  up,  though  it  was  broad  dawn  when 
he  and  his  companions  went  out  into  the  cool,  silent  streets, 
realising  when  they  breathed  the  morning  air  the  closeness  of 
the  heated  atmosphere  they  had  quitted.  They  separated  by 
degrees,  dropping  off,  one  after  the  other,  as  each  approached 
his  lodgings,  but  before  going  home  they  all  accompanied  Rex 
to  the  street  door  of  his  dwelling. 

When  Greif  was  alone  he  threw  open  his  window  to  the  fresh 
morning  breeze,  and  sitting  down  as  he  was,  drank  in  the  air, 
which  to  him  seemed  so  delightfully  sweet,  though  it  would 
have  chilled  a  weaker  man  to  the  bone.  It  was  all  the  refresh 
ment  he  needed,  in  spite  of  a  sleepless  night,  spent  chiefly  in  an 
atmosphere  heated  by  gas  and  heavy  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco. 
The  morning,  too,  was  exceptionally  clear  and  beautiful.  A 
scarcely  perceptible  mist  blended  the  neutral  tints  of  the  old 
town  with  the  faint  colours  of  the  sky,  which  changed  by 
gentle  degrees  from  dark  blue  to  violet,  from  violet  to  palest 


118  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

green,  then  to  yellow  and  then  at  last  to  the  living  blue  of  day 
above,  while  a  vast  fan  of  golden  light  trembled  above  the 
spot  whence  the  sun  would  presently  rise.  The  level  rays 
gilded  the  slender  cathedral  spire,  and  the  glass  of  many  a 
pointed  gable-window  in  the  town  sent  back  the  flaming  re 
flexion.  All  above  was  warm,  and  all  below  was  cold  in  the 
blue  shadow  that  still  darkened  the  flowing  river  and  the  narrow 
streets  beyond. 

For  a  time  Greif  gave  himself  up  to  the  pleasure  of  the  sight 
and  sensation.  His  instinctive  love  of  nature  was  strong  enough 
to  absorb  his  whole  being  at  certain  moments,  for  it  was  real, 
and  not  cultivated,  thorough  and  altogether  unconscious  of  itself. 
But  when  the  exceptional  loveliness  of  the  dawn  and  sunrise  was 
drowned  in  the  flooding  light  of  an  ordinarily  fine  day,  Greif 
rose  from  his  seat  by  the  window  and  went  about  the  business 
of  dressing  regretfully,  as  though  he  wished  that  the  morning 
might  sink  back  again  into  the  twilight,  as  quickly  as  in  the  far 
north,  when  the  sun  first  shows  the  edge  of  his  disc  above  the 
horizon  in  early  spring. 

He  had  no  thought  of  taking  any  rest,  and  intended  to  go  to 
the  University  as  usual,  for  it  was  a  part  of  his  Teutonic  character 
to  take  his  amusement  at  the  expense  of  his  sleep  rather  than  to 
the  detriment  of  his  work.  After  such  a  night  an  Italian  would 
have  gone  to  bed,  a  Frenchman  would  have  swallowed  a  brim 
ming  glass  of  absinthe  and  would  have  passed  the  day  in  visiting 
his  fellow-students,  or  fellow-artists,  an  Englishman  would  have 
taken  a  plunge  in  the  icy  river  and  would  have  gone  for  a  walk 
in  the  country.  But  Greif  did  none  of  these  things.  He  drank 
his  coffee  and  went  to  his  books  and  his  lectures  as  though 
nothing  unusual  had  happened.  He  did  it  mechanically  and 
felt  himself  obliged  to  do  it,  as  much  as  any  guard-officer  in 
Berlin,  who  comes  home  from  a  ball  at  dawn,  exchanges  the 
inadmissible  kid  gloves  and  varnished  boots  he  wears  iivsociety 
for  the  regulation  articles  of  leather,  smooths  his  hair  with  the 
little  brushes  he  always  has  in  his  pocket,  draws  his  sword  and 
marches  out  with  his  company  of  grenadiers  to  the  exercising 
ground,  as  merrily  and  as  naturally  as  though  he  had  spent  the 
night  in  bed. 

Before  he  left  the  house  again,  Greif  received  a  letter  from 
his  father.  It  was  some  time  since  the  latter  had  mentioned 
Rieseneck  and  Greif  did  not  now  expect  any  news  concerning 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  119 

him.  He  turned  pale  as  he  read  the  contents.  It  appeared  that 
Rieseneck  had  lauded  in  Europe  and  intended  to  proceed  with 
out  delay  to  Berlin,  in  order  to  report  himself  at  the  Home  Office 
as  one  who  desired  to  take  advantage  of  the  amnesty  with  the 
intention  of  residing  in  his  native  country. 

"  I  myself,"  wrote  Greifenstein,  "  have  serious  doubts  in  this 
matter.  I  cannot  believe  that  your  uncle  is  included  in  the 
general  pardon  for  political  offenders.  He  committed  a  crime 
against  both  civil  and  military  law  and  was  condemned  by  a 
court-martial.  It  would  have  been  more  respectable  to  shoot 
him  at  once.  As  this  was  not  done,  I  have  actually  been  obliged 
to  write  to  him,  now,  warning  him  that  in  my  opinion  he  is  not 
safe.  In  the  meanwhile,  be  careful,  my  dear  boy,  and  keep 
amongst  your  own  Korps,  where  you  are  not  likely  to  have 
trouble  about  your  infamous  relation.  He  is  not  worth  fighting 
for,  though  you  would  of  course  be  obliged  to  go  out  if  a  stran 
ger  made  disagreeable  remarks.  Happily,  in  a  little  more  than  a 
month,  you  will  be  at  home,  where  such  things  cannot  occur. 
Praise  be  to  Heaven,  we  are  very  well,  though  your  mother  con 
tinues  to  be  more  silent  than  usual.  Hexerl  has  got  over  the 
distemper  very  well  and  is  a  fine  pup.  I  have  decided  not  to 
fell  the  old  wood,  though  it  is  quite  time.  What  need  have  1 
for  the  money  ?  Let  the  trees  stand  till  the  wind  blows  them 
down.  Perhaps  you  will  be  glad,  though  you  do  not  often  go 
to  that  part  of  the  forest.  I  have  sent  your  rifle  to  Stuttgardt 
to  be  re-sighted  as  you  wished.  And  so,  good-bye." 

Greif  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket  and  went  gloomily  on  his 
way  to  the  lecture,  reflecting  that  at  that  very  moment  Rieseneck 
was  probably  on  his  way  to  Berlin. 


120  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTEK    X. 

THE  snow  fell  heavily  in  the  Black  Forest  during  the  third 
week  of  December.  It  lay  in  great  white  drifts  against  the  huge 
rampart  of  Greifenstein,  blown  against  the  rough  masonry  by 
the  bitter  north  wind,  until  the  approach  to  the  main  gate  was 
a  deep  trench  dug  in  the  white  covering  of  the  earth.  The  driv 
ing  blast  had  driven  great  patches  of  flakes  against  the  lofty 
wall  so  that  they  stuck  to  the  stones  and  looked  like  broad 
splashes  of  white  paint.  The  north  sides  of  the  pointed  roofs 
on  the  towers  were  white,  too,  and  gleamed  in  the  occasional 
bursts  of  sunshine  that  interrupted  the  fierce  weather.  In  the 
forest,  the  slanting  branches  of  the  firs  were  loaded  down  with 
irregular  masses  of  snow,  through  which  the  needle  foliage 
looked  as  black  as  ink.  Not  a  spot  of  colour  was  visible  any 
where,  for  everything  was  either  black  or  white. 

Old  Greifenstein  was  no  more  afraid  of  the  weather  than  he 
was  of  anything  else.  Day  after  day  he  went  out  with  his  gun 
and  his  dog,  to  fight  his  way  for  miles  through  the  drifts,  up 
and  down  hill,  over  the  open  moor  where  the  snow  was  not  knee- 
deep,  under  the  giant  trees  from  which  great  lumps  of  it  fell 
now  and  then  upon  his  fur  cap  and  grizzled  hair,  down  into 
the  dells  and  gorges  where  it  was  nearly  up  to  his  neck,  and 
where  his  sturdy  dog  struggled  wildly  through  the  passage  his 
master  had  made.  Greifenstein  pursued  the  only  amusement  of 
his  life  in  his  own  solitary  fashion,  rarely  shooting  at  anything, 
never  missing  when  he  did,  killing  a  buck  once  or  twice  in  a  week 
and  bringing  it  home  on  his  own  shoulders  for  the  use  of  his 
household,  or  lying  in  wait  for  six  or  seven  hours  at  a  time  to 
get  a  shot  at  a  stag ;  grimly  pleased  to  be  always  alone,  and 
silently  satisfied  in  the  thought  that  all  was  his,  and  his  only, 
to  kill  or  to  let  live  at  his  seigneurial  discretion.  The  keepers 
knew  that  he  wanted  no  companions,  and  they  kept  out  of  his 
way  when  he  was  abroad,  not  dissatisfied  perhaps  that  their 
tireless  master  should  do  most  of  their  work  in  the  bitter  weather, 


GEELFENSTEIN.  121 

leaving  them  to  smoke  their  pipes  in  their  cottages  or  to  drink 
their  beer  and  cherry  spirits  in  the  inn  of  the  distant  village. 
He  left  the  house  in  the  morning  and  rarely  returned  before 
dusk.  It  is  not  strange  that  his  humour  should  have  grown 
more  stern  and  melancholy  under  such  circumstances. 

Greifenstein  and  his  wife  seemed  to  understand  each  other, 
however,  and  though  days  passed  during  which  they  scarcely 
exchanged  a  word,  neither  complained  of  the  other's  silence  nor 
felt  the  slightest  desire  to  do  so.  From  time  to  time  one  of  the 
servants  declared  that  he  could  bear  the  life  no  longer,  and 
gave  up  his  large  wages  and  gorgeous  apparel  to  return  to  the 
city.  He  was  replaced  by  another,  without  any  remark.  Con 
trary  to  German  custom,  Greifenstein  never  expected  any  one 
to  stay  long  in  the  house,  and  merely  stipulated  that  any 
one  who  wished  to  leave  should  give  warning  a  fortnight  pre 
viously.  Neither  he  nor  his  wife  were  yet  so  old  as  to  tempt 
servants  to  stay  on  for  the  death,  in  the  hope  of  picking  up 
something  worth  having  in  the  general  confusion.  There  was 
something  strange  in  the  way  the  pair  lived,  lonely  and  unloved 
in  their  ancient  home,  amidst  a  crowd  of  ever-changing  attend 
ants,  who  succumbed  one  by  one  to  the  awful  dreariness  of  the 
isolated  life,  and  went  away  to  give  place  to  others,  who,  in 
their  turn  would  give  it  up  after  six  months  or  a  year.  And 
yet  neither  Greifenstein  nor  Clara  would  have  changed  their 
existence. 

Greifenstein  had  abandoned  the  attempt  to  explain  his  wife's 
illness,  if  she  were  really  ill,  but  he  could  not  help  seeing  the 
alteration  that  was  going  on  for  the  worse  in  her  appearance 
and  character,  and  the  sight  did  not  contribute  to  his  peace. 
He  himself  looked  much  the  same  as  ever.  After  receiving  the 
news  that  his  half-brother  intended  to  return,  he  stiffened  his 
stiff  neck  to  meet  whatever  misfortune  was  in  store  for  him  ; 
and  when  he  learned  that  Kieseneck  was  in  Europe,  he  only  set 
his  teeth  a  little  closer  and  tramped  a  little  more  savagely 
through  the  snow-drifts  after  the  game.  He  knew  that  he  could 
do  nothing  to  hinder  the  progress  of  events,  and  he  knew  that  if 
his  brother  came  to  Greifenstein,  he  should  need  all  his  strength 
and  energy  in  dealing  with  him.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  wait.  As  for  Clara's  secret,  the  more  he  thought  about  it, 
the  more  persuaded  he  was  that  it  was  not  connected  with 
Rieseneck,  but  with  some  other  person.  He  grew  anxious, 


122  GREIFENSTEIN. 

however,  as  he  watched  her,  for  it  was  now  clear  that  unless 
something  occurred  to  revive  her  vital  energy  and  her  spirits, 
she  must  soon  become  an  invalid  altogether,  even  if  she  did 
not  die  of  her  sufferings. 

More  than  once,  Greifenstein  proposed  to  go  away,  to  travel, 
to  spend  the  winter  in  a  southern  climate,  but  she  refused  to 
leave  her  home,  with  a  firmness  that  surprised  him.  There  was 
Greif,  she  said,  and  Greif  must  be  considered.  When  he  was 
married  they  might  go  away  and  leave  the  castle  to  the  young 
couple.  Until  then  she  would  not  move.  Greifenstein  could 
not  but  see  the  wisdom  of  this  course.  Meanwhile  he  attempted 
to  induce  his  wife  to  live  more  in  the  open  air,  to  ride,  to  drive,  to 
do  anything.  But  she  confessed  that  she  was  too  weak  to  face 
the  inclement  weather. 

Greifenstein  was  a  kind-hearted  man  in  his  own  peculiar 
way,  and  he  began  to  be  sorry  for  her.  She  no  longer  dis 
tressed  his  sense  of  fitness,  as  formerly,  by  her  inopportune 
interruptions,  her  wild  smiles,  her  hysterical  laughter,  her  piti 
fully  flippant  talk.  He  said  to  himself  that  she  must  be  ill 
indeed,  to  be  so  serious  and  quiet.  Perhaps  she  needed  amuse 
ment.  His  ideas  of  diversion  were  not  of  a  very  gay  nature, 
and  since  she  would  neither  leave  the  house  nor  the  country  he 
did  not  quite  see  what  he  could  do  to  amuse  her.  But  the 
thought  that  it  was  necessary  for  her  health  grew  until  he  felt 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  do  something.  Then  he  hesitated  no 
longer  and  made  a  desperate  attempt,  involving  a  considerable 
sacrifice  to  his  own  inclinations.  He  proposed  to  read  aloud  to 
her  out  of  the  best  German  authors.  Even  poor  Clara,  whose 
sense  of  humour  was  almost  wholly  gone,  smiled  faintly  and 
opened  her  faded  eyes  very  wide  at  the  suggestion. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  idea  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

The  time  when  Greifenstein  made  his  proposition  was  the 
evening,  when  the  two  sat  in  their  easy-chairs  on  each  side  of 
the  great  heraldically  carved  chirnney-piece  in  the  drawing- 
room.  They  generally  read  to  themselves,  and  each  had  a 
small  table  with  a  shaded  lamp  and  a  pile  of  books. 

"My  dear,"  answered  Greifenstein,  "it  is  not  a  question  of 
ideas.  I  have  examined  the  matter  and  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  you  must  be  amused.  It  is  therefore  my  duty 
to  provide  you  with  amusement.  As  I  cannot  sing,  nor  dance, 
and  as  you  do  not  play  cards,  I  cannot  think  of  any  more  fitting 


GREIFENSTEIN.  123 

method  of  diverting  you  than  by  reading  aloud.  German  liter 
ature  offers  much  variety.  You  have  only  to  choose  the  author 
you  prefer,  and  I  will  read  as  much  as  you  like." 

Greifenstein  was  absolutely  in  earnest,  and  delivered  his 
remarks  in  his  usual  dry  and  matter-of-fact  way.  When  he 
had  finished  speaking  he  took  up  the  volumes  that  were  on  his 
table,  one  after  the  other,  and  looked  at  the  titles  on  the  covers, 
as  though  already  trying  to  decide  upon  the  one  which  would 
best  suit  his  purpose.  Clara  did  not  find  a  ready  answer  to  his 
arguments,  and  her  smile  had  disappeared.  Her  wasted  hands 
lay  idly  in  her  lap,  and  her  tired  head  sank  forward  upon  her 
breast.  She  wished  it  were  all  over,  that  she  might  fall  asleep 
without  the  dread  of  waking.  Greifenstein  did  not  notice  her. 

"What  shall  it  be?"  he  asked.  She  raised  her  face  slowly 
and  looked  at  him. 

"  Oh,  Hugo,  I  would  rather  not !  "  she  exclaimed  faintly. 

Her  husband  laid  down  the  volume  he  had  last  taken  up, 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  folded  his  knotted  hands  over  his  knee 
and  looked  at  her  intently. 

"  Clara,"  he  said  after  a  few  moments,  "  what  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing  at  all !  "  she  answered,  with  a  feeble  effort 
to  look  cheerful. 

"  There  is  no  object  in  telling  me  that,"  returned  Greifenstein, 
still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  "  There  is  something  the 
matter  with  you,  and  it  is  something  serious.  I  have  watched 
you  for  a  long  time.  Either  you  are  bodily  ill,  or  else  some 
matter  troubles  your  mind." 

"  Oh  no !  Nothing,  I  assure  you,"  she  replied  in  a  scarcely 
audible  tone. 

"  I  repeat  that  it  is  of  no  use.  I  do  not  wish  to  question 
you,  my  dear,"  he  continued,  almost  kindly.  "  Whatever  your 
thoughts  are,  they  are  your  own.  But  I  cannot  see  you  wasting 
away  before  my  eyes  without  wishing  to  help  you.  It  is  part  of 
my  duty.  Now  a  man  is  stronger  than  a  woman,  and  less  im 
aginative.  It  may  be  that  you  are  distressing  yourself  with 
little  reason,  and  that,  if  you  would  confide  in  me,  I  might 
demonstrate  to  you  that  you  have  no  cause  for  repining.  Con 
sider  well,  whether  you  can  tell  me  your  trouble,  and  give  me 
an  answer." 

Clara  listened,  at  first  scarcely  heeding  what  he  said.     Then 


124  GREIFENSTEIN. 

as  she  realised  the  nature  of  his  request  and  thought  of  her 
secret,  she  fancied  that  she  must  go  mad.  It  seemed  as  though 
some  diabolical  power  were  at  hand,  forcing  her  slowly,  slowly, 
against  her  will,  to  rise  up  from  her  chair,  to  tell  the  story,  to 
speak  the  truth.  Her  brain  reeled.  She  could  hear  the  fatal 
words  ringing  through  the  room  in  the  familiar  tones  of  her 
own  voice,  distinctly,  one  by  one,  omitting  nothing  in  the 
immensity  of  her  self-accusation.  She  could  feel  the  icy  horror 
creeping  through  bone  and  marrow,  as  the  truth  tortured  her 
in  the  utterance  of  it.  She  could  see  Greifenstein's  grey  face 
transformed  with  rage  and  hatred,  she  trembled  under  the 
inhuman  savageness  of  his  fiery  eyes,  she  saw  his  tall  body  rise 
up  before  her,  and  his  hand  raised  to  strike,  and  she  covered 
her  face  to  die. 

It  was  only  a  waking  dream.  The  stillness  roused  her  to  life, 
her  hands  dropped  from  her  eyes,  and  she  saw  her  husband 
sitting  quietly  in  his  place  and  gazing  at  her  with  the  same 
kindly,  anxious  glance  as  before.  She  had  not  spoken,  nor 
uttered  any  sound,  and  Greifenstein  had  not  seen  the  death- 
pallor  under  her  paint.  He  had  only  seen  her  lift  her  hands 
to  her  face  and  take  them  away  again  almost  immediately. 
In  that  moment  she  had  suffered  the  pain  of  hell,  but  her 
secret  was  still  her  own.  That  terrible,  unseen  power  that 
had  pressed  her  to  speak  was  gone,  and  no  one  knew  what  was 
in  her  heart. 

"You  are  certainly  very  far  from  well,"  said  Greifenstein, 
returning  to  the  attack  with  characteristic  pertinacity.  "  Can 
you  not  make  up  your  mind  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  she  cried  suddenly  in  a  terrified  voice.  Then  out  of 
sheer  fright  she  made  an  enormous  effort  over  herself,  and 
laughed  aloud.  Under  the  influence  of  that  mortal  dread,  in 
the  supreme  exertion  she  made  to  destroy  the  effect  of  the 
monosyllable  that  had  escaped  her  lips,  the  laugh  sounded 
natural.  It  was  well  done,  for  it  was  done  for  life  or  death, 
and  if  it  failed  she  was  betrayed.  That  single  "  No  "  had  been 
almost  enough  to  ruin  all,  but  her  laugh  saved  her,  though  she 
trembled  in  every  weakened  joint  when  its  echoes  died  away 
among  the  carved  rafters  of  the  great  room,  and  she  felt  the 
drops  of  cold  perspiration  moving  softly  over  her  forehead 
towards  the  rouge  on  her  cheeks. 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Greifenstein,  "  that  sounds  more  like  your- 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  125 

self.  Perhaps  we  ought  to  talk  more  in  the  evening.  It  does 
me  good  to  hear  you  laugh  nowadays.  Let  us  talk,  by  all 
means.  I  am  sure  all  this  is  only  a  foolish  fit  of  melancholy,  is 
it  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  doubt  it  is.     Let  us  try  and  talk,  if  you  like." 

"  I  am  too  silent  a  man  for  you,  Clara,"  said  her  husband 
reflectively.  "  It  is  certainly  my  duty  to  make  an  effort." 

"It  is  just  as  much  mine,"  she  answered  with  an  earnestness 
that  attracted  his  notice.  She  was  thinking  that  unless  she 
roused  herself,  the  fearful  scene  that  had  been  enacted  in  her 
imagination  might  some  day  take  place  in  reality. 

' '  No,"  said  Greifenstein.  "  It  is  you  who  are  ill,  and  it  is 
you  who  must  be  amused.  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  my 
proposition?  Shall  I  read  something  to  you?  Shall  it  be 
Goethe,  or  Schiller,  or  Heine?  You  know  all  the  modern 
writers  well  enough." 

"  Something  from  Heine  then,  if  you  will,"  answered  Clara. 
"  You  are  so  kind !  Perhaps  he  will  make  us  laugh." 

"  Yes,"  echoed  her  husband.  "  Perhaps  Heine  will  make  us 
laugh." 

The  ghastly  entertainment  began,  and  continued  for  an  hour, 
but  the  merriment  was  not  as  great  as  had  been  anticipated. 
The  writer's  marvellous  wit  was  lost  upon  Greifenstein  who,  in 
the  conscientiousness  of  his  attempt  to  read  well  and  expressively, 
confused  his  own  mind  to  such  an  extent  as  to  understand  very 
little  of  what  passed  his  lips.  As  for  Clara,  she  closed  her  eyes 
and  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  scarcely  knowing  what  her  mind 
was  dwelling  on,  but  conscious  of  an  added  horror  in  her  miser 
able  life,  so  great  that  all  before  seemed  well-nigh  insignificant. 
She  tried  to  listen  from  time  to  time,  but  her  husband's 
voice  sounded  as  though  it  were  far  away,  reaching  her 
through  some  muffling  medium  that  intervened  between  her 
and  him. 

The  clock  of  the  castle  struck  ten,  and  Greifenstein  closed 
the  book  with  a  sort  of  military  precision  when  he  reached  the 
end  of  the  sentence  he  was  reading.  Clara  roused  herself  to 
thank  him. 

"  It  has  been  so  good  of  you  !  "  she  said.  "  I  have  enjoyed  it 
very  much." 

"  We  will  read  every  evening,  until  you  are  better,"  answered 
her  husband  with  great  determination.  And  he  kept  his  word, 


126  GREIFENSTEIN. 

although  his  plan  for  diverting  the  poor  lady  was  not  attended 
with  much  success. 

Night  after  night  he  took  his  seat  by  the  fire,  exactly  half  an 
hour  after  the  evening  meal  was  ended.  Night  after  night 
Clara  sat  with  half-closed  eyes,  hearing  his  wooden  voice,  as 
in  a  dream,  and  wondering  how  all  would  end.  There  was  no 
change  in  their  lives  or  habits  beyond  the  introduction  of  what 
Greifenstein  called  the  amusement  of  his  wife.  It  was  all  the 
same,  the  monotonous  succession  of  morning  and  evening,  of 
night  and  noon  and  evening  again.  Possibly  the  lives  of  these 
two  persons  might  have  continued  to  crawl  along  in  the  narrow 
channel  they  had  made  for  themselves  during  many  years  more, 
if  the  events  which  had  been  so  long  preparing  had  been  re 
tarded;  for  Greifenstein  was  a  man  of  habit  in  everything, 
incapable  of  weariness  in  the  performance  of  what  he  consid 
ered  to  be  his  duty,  and  Clara's  really  strong  health  might  have 
carried  her  through  half  a  lifetime  of  exasperating  stagnation. 
Indeed,  if  things  altered  at  all  after  the  conversation  about  her 
state,  the  change  was  for  the  better.  A  fictitious  calm  descended 
upon  the  old  house,  and  a  certain  gentleness  found  its  way  into 
the  relations  of  the  couple  which  was  agreeable  to  both.  With 
Clara  this  was  the  result  of  exhaustion  and  despair.  She  felt 
herself  wholly  unable  to  bear  any  great  disaster  should  it  fall 
upon  her,  and  she  was  grateful  to  her  husband,  and  prayed,  if 
she  prayed  at  all,  that  both  might  die  peacefully  during  those 
days.  She  even  had  a  vague  belief  that  Heaven  would  not 
really  bring  about  that  hideous  catastrophe  that  haunted  her 
dreams,  and  that  forced  her  to  dream  of  it  when  she  was  waking. 
Had  she  not  been  a  faithful  wife  to  the  stern,  grey  man  who 
had  sat  opposite  to  her  for  five  and  twenty  years?  Had  she 
not  been  a  fairly  good  mother  to  Greif,  if  not  very  loving,  nor 
very  wise,  at  least  what  people  call  a  good  mother?  Her  con 
science  told  her  that,  at  least,  and  she  felt  how  great  a  comfort 
it  was  to  think  that  she  had  not  been  wholly  bad.  Moreover, 
she  had  been  placed  in  strange  circumstances  when  she  had 
done  the  deed,  whatever  it  was,  and  if  she  had  not  been  as 
young  at  that  time  as  she  had  pretended  to  be,  she  had  yet  not 
been  so  old  as  to  understand  thoroughly  what  she  was  doing. 
Heaven  would  surely  not  be  so  unkind  as  to  visit  upon  her  now 
the  sins  of  her  youth;  now,  when  a  quarter  of  a  century  of 
peaceful  married  life  had  intervened  between  that  day  and 


GREIFENSTEIN.  127 

this ;  now,  when  Greif  himself  was  grown  to  a  man's  estate 
and  was  to  be  married  in  his  turn.  Surely,  there  was  mercy 
for  her.  But  if  there  were  none,  if  Heaven  were  to  be  more 
just  than  kind,  what  would  become  of  her?  The  thin  blood 
beat  in  her  hollow  temples  as  she  thought  of  it,  and  then  sank 
back  suddenly  to  the  tired  heart  whence  it  had  risen.  Above 
all  else,  the  thought  of  Greif  was  unbearable.  He,  too,  must 
know,  if  anything  were  known.  He,  too,  would  turn  upon  her, 
and  force  her  to  drain  the  last  dregs  of  the  death-draught.  But 
she  still  believed  and  hoped,  hoped  and  believed,  that  the  day 
would  never  come. 

And  yet  it  was  at  hand,  now,  after  all  those  months  of  agonis 
ing  fear,  just  when  she  deluded  herself  with  the  sweet  thought 
that  it  might  never  come  at  all.  Greifenstein  came  home  in 
the  dusk  one  afternoon,  and  found  a  letter  upon  his  desk  in  his 
own  room.  He  broke  the  seal  and  read  it  while  his  teeth  ground 
upon  each  other,  and  his  face  turned  grey.  He  did  not  utter  a 
sound,  he  did  not  strike  his  forehead  nor  clench  his  fist,  nor 
fall  into  a  chair.  He  only  stiffened  his  neck  a  little  and  stood 
silently  gazing  at  the  fire.  After  a  moment's  reflexion,  he 
tossed  the  letter  into  the  flames  and  waited  until  it  was  quite 
burnt.  Then  he  rang  the  bell. 

"Listen,  Jacob,"  he  said  to  the  servant  who  came,  and  his 
voice  did  not  tremble.  "  A  friend  of  mine  has  written  to  say 
that  he  is  coming  to  the  forest  to  shoot.  He  comes  alone,  as  I 
go  myself.  It  is  bad  weather,  and  he  may  find  his  way  here  at 
any  hour.  When  he  presents  himself,  bring  him  immediately 
to  this  room  and  send  for  me.  I  will  not  go  far  from  the  castle 
until  he  arrives." 

The  servant  asked  the  gentleman's  name. 

"  Herr  Brandt,"  answered  Greifenstein  without  hesitation. 

The  letter  had  informed  him  that  Rieseneck's  application  to 
be  included  in  the  amnesty  had  been  absolutely  refused,  and 
that  he  had  fled  a  second  time  under  an  assumed  name.  He 
appealed  to  his  brother  to  help  him  over  the  frontier  to  Con 
stance,  and  said  that  he  might  arrive  at  any  time  after  his 
letter. 

"When  he  was  alone,  Greifenstein  sat  down  to  consider  the 
situation,  after  carefully  filling  and  lighting  the  pipe  his  son 
had  brought  him  at  his  last  visit.  He  was  in  the  habit  of 
doing  this  every  day  when  he  came  home,  and  it  seemed  to 


128  GREIFENSTEIN. 

him  that  to  omit  any  detail  of  his  ordinary  life  would  be  to  show 
an  amount  of  emotion  quite  unworthy  of  himself.  It  was  one 
of  those  small  acts,  performed  alone,  which  are  the  truest  indi 
cations  of  a  man's  character.  If  he  was  not  able  to  smoke  his 
pipe  as  usual,  it  must  be  because  he  was  unable  to  bear  calmly 
what  had  come  upon  him,  and  consequently  was  not  fit  to  meet 
his  wife  at  dinner  without  betraying  his  anxiety.  It  was  not 
an  act  that  showed  indifference,  as  many  would  think.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  the  expression  of  his  indomitably  conscientious 
nature.  To  change  one  small  thing  in  his  demeanour,  even 
when  he  was  alone,  would  have  been  to  begin  badly  and  at  a 
disadvantage. 

He  scrupulously  put  his  feet  upon  the  same  spot  on  the 
fender  at  which  they  usually  rested  when  he  came  home,  he  sat 
in  his  accustomed  attitude,  and  he  smoked  with  his  accustomed 
solemnity.  It  would  be  a  mistake  to  exaggerate  the  importance 
which  Rieseneck's  coming  had  in  his  eyes,  as  far  as  any  material 
consequences  to  himself  were  concerned.  There  was  no  ruin 
before  him,  no  inevitable  disaster.  He  dreaded  the  moral  side 
of  the  incident,  and  worst  of  all  the  possibility  of  his  being 
obliged  to  tell  Clara  of  the  existence  of  his  disgraced  brother. 
He  knew  well  enough  that  the  newspapers  would  contain  an 
account  of  Rieseneck's  attempt,  and  he  feared  lest  some  jour 
nalist  with  a  long  memory  should  recall  the  fact  of  the  relation 
ship.  Like  most  men  who  have  formerly  lived  in  a  capital,  he 
fancied  that  every  one  still  knew  him,  and  respected  him,  and 
he  attached  immense  importance  to  the  mere  mention  of  his 
name.  That  he  should  be  called  the  brother  of  a  disgraced  and 
criminal  officer  in  a  journal,  seemed  to  him  a  terrible  calamity, 
an  almost  unbearable  blow  to  his  pride.  He  did  not  guess 
that  he  was  as  really  forgotten  as  though  he  had  been  twenty 
years  dead.  The  days  when  he  had  worn  a  uniform  seemed 
very  near  to  him  still,  and  he  could  not  realise  that  his  own 
youth  could  seem  so  distant  to  those  who  had  once  known  him. 
His  whole  nature  revolted  against  the  thought  of  meeting 
Rieseneck,  and  though  he  was  not  troubled  by  an  active  imagi 
nation  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  bitter  words  he  would 
use  in  the  interview.  There  was  nothing  cynical  in  his  moral 
composition.  To  him,  honour  was  a  fact  and  not  a  prejudice, 
a  priceless  possession  of  his  own,  a  household  idol  for  which  he 
was  at  all  times  ready  to  sacrifice  every  other  consideration. 


GEE1FENSTEIN.  129 

The  existence  of  his  brother  was  a  rent  in  the  wholeness  of  that 
fact,  a  flaw  in  his  title  to  that  possession,  a  stain  upon  the 
divinity  of  that  domestic  god.  Greifenstein  was  very  unhappy, 
and  his  trouble  took  the  form  of  resentment  against  the 
offender,  rather  than  of  a  mild  and  harmless  self-pity.  He 
was  hindered  from  forgetting  and  he  would  not  forgive,  for 
the  injury  was  real,  as  he  saw  it.  In  crowded  cities  men  have 
other  things  to  do  than  to  trouble  their  peace  concerning  ideals. 
A  neighbour,  a  friend,  a  relation,  falls  into  overwhelming  dis 
grace  —  they  pause  a  minute  and  then  pass  on,  reflecting  with 
all  the  certainty  gained  by  long  experience,  that  the  world  will 
soon  forget,  and  that,  after  all  is  said,  their  brother's  infamy 
is  no  concern  of  theirs.  But  when  men  who  are  scrupulously 
honourable  themselves,  and  who  respect  their  own  family 
traditions  of  honour  more  than  anything  else  on  earth,  are 
shut  off  from  the  world  for  many  years,  they  cannot  look  at 
such  matters  as  city  folks  do.  The  less  they  have  to  do  the 
more  they  think  of  their  household  history,  and  the  greater  is 
the  pride  they  feel  in  reviewing  the  biography  of  their  race. 
A  sort  of  mediaeval  twilight  descends  upon  their  latter  years, 
and  their  souls  receive  the  heraldic  vision.  They  brood  gloomily 
over  the  misdeeds  of  some  long-dead  ancestor,  and  their  faces 
glow  when  they  think  of  their  crusading  forefathers.  They 
fight  again  the  battles  of  long  ago,  they  charge  with  Welf  or 
Weiblingen,  they  follow  the  Kaiser  to  his  coronation  in  imperial 
Rome,  they  strive  through  the  press  of  knights,  they  perish 
with  Conradin  in  Naples,  they  prick  hotly  after  the  standard 
of  the  great  Rudolf,  they  kill  and  riot  throughout  the  Thirty 
Years'  War,  they  shed  their  heart's  blood  with  Frederick,  they 
fall  at  Austerlitz,  they  rise  at  Leipzig,  they  are  with  Bliicher 
at  Waterloo,  with  "  Unser  Fritz  "  at  Koniggratz,  with  Schmet- 
tow's  gallant  cuirassiers  in  the  deadly  ride  of  Mars  la  Tour,  and 
they  land  themselves  each  evening  before  the  carved  escutcheon 
of  the  old  chimney-piece  at  home,  the  proud  descendants  of  a 
race  of  heroes  known  to  fame.  And  yet,  though  all  be  true 
from  first  to  last,  fame  knows  little  of  them.  Who  remembers 
their  names?  Their  fathers  for  ages  were  gentlemen  like  them 
selves,  never  very  great  or  powerful,  sometimes  poor,  almost 
insignificant  in  the  great  throng  of  light-hearted  soldiers  on 
whose  necks  empires  have  rested,  and  by  whose  hands  kingdoms 
have  been  overthrown.  Probably  not  one  of  all  those  dead 


130  GREIFENSTEIN. 

knights  ever  felt  half  the  pride  in  himself  that  is  felt  in  him  by 
his  representative  in  the  nineteenth  century,  nor  experienced 
half  as  much  pleasure  in  gazing  at  his  battered  shield  with  its 
half-defaced  cognisance,  as  now  brings  the  blood  to  his  descend 
ant's  cheek  as  he  looks  at  the  carved  stone  semblance  of  the 
original.  In  the  trained  sight  of  this  modern  gentleman,  the 
past  is  more  real  than  its  own  reality  was  long  ago ;  he  is  -more 
loyal  than  the  law,  more  royalist  than  the  king,  more  protestant 
than  Luther,  more  conservative  than  a  Chinese  sage.  An 
insinuation  against  any  member  of  his  race,  though  he  have 
been  dead  since  the  first  Crusade,  is  a  direct  insult  to  himself, 
to  be  wiped  out  by  personal  combat.  His  sleeping  passions, 
if  roused,  take  but  one  direction,  to  fight  for  something,  his 
king,  his  religion  or  his  honour.  His  memories  and  his  preju 
dices  are  complicated,  interwoven  and  entangled  beyond  all 
belief ;  his  character  is  simple,  for  his  only  principle  is  that 
those  prejudices  and  traditions  are  alike  infallible  and  unassail 
able,  and  that  no  sacrifice  must  be  spared  in  defending  them. 
Such  is  the  old-fashioned  German  country  gentleman,  and  such 
was  Hugo  von  Greifenstein. 

Kieseneck,  a  traitor  to  his  country,  the  betrayer  of  a  military 
trust,  condemned,  a  fugitive  and  publicly  infamous,  was  about 
to  enter  the  sacred  place  of  his  brother's  idols.  For  a  few  hours 
at  least  he  was  to  abide  under  the  roof  which  sheltered  such 
precious  memories.  His  abominable  presence  was  to  defile  the 
honourable  dwelling  of  all  the  Greifensteins.  Worse  than  that, 
his  execrated  name  was  to  be  coupled  with  that  of  Greifenstein 
himself  in  the  public  prints.  Matters  could  not  be  worse,  in 
the  estimation  of  the  iron-grey  man  who  sat  solemnly  smoking 
his  pipe  before  the  fire,  and  straining  every  faculty  to  maintain 
his  usual  composure  even  in  his  solitude. 

The  situation  seemed  unbearable,  and  yet  it  must  be  borne. 
Every  moment  was  in  all  likelihood  bringing  Rieseneck  nearer, 
every  minute  might  be  the  last  before  his  coming.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  Greifenstein  had  not  even  the  diversion  of 
making  preparations  for  the  man's  hurried  journey,  since  any  show 
of  preparation  might  be  detrimental  to  the  scheme.  His  plan 
was  to  start  in  the  early  dawn  of  the  next  morning  with  guns 
and  dogs  as  though  for  a  shooting  expedition,  to  ride  as  far  as 
possible,  then  to  leave  the  horses  and  to  cross  the  frontier  into 
Switzerland.  Nothing  could  be  easier,  and  he  knew  that 


GREIFENSTEIN.  131 

Rieseneck  was  aware  of  the  fact  from  his  knowledge  of  the 
locality.  Moreover  it  was  probable  that  although  the  applica 
tion  for  pardon  had  been  refused,  no  attempt  would  be  made 
to  arrest  the  fugitive.  He  would  be  allowed  to  leave  the 
country  unmolested,  as  it  would  be  considered  impolitic  to 
increase  the  scandal  by  consigning  him  again  to  the  fortress 
whence  he  had  escaped  so  many  years  before.  Greifenstein 
had  nothing  to  fear  for  himself,  and  he  cared  nothing  what 
became  of  his  brother,  provided  that  he  were  not  caught. 
Nevertheless,  he  suffered  extremely  while  he  waited,  for  he 
dreaded  the  meeting,  as  he  could  not  have  dreaded  any  material 
danger. 

He  was  making  a  calculation  with  the  object  of  fixing  some 
limit  of  time  within  which  Rieseneck  must  arrive,  and  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  catastrophe  could  not  be  far  distant. 
Rieseneck  would  probably  come  to  the  nearest  railway  station 
by  train  from  Stuttgardt,  and  walk  thence  to  Greifenstein, 
leaving  any  luggage  he  might  have  with  him  to  be  forwarded 
after  he  had  made  good  his  escape.  In  that  case,  if  he  had 
started  on  the  day  when  he  wrote,  his  coming  might  be  only 
retarded  a  little  by  the  fact  of  his  being  on  foot,  whereas  the 
lad  who  brought  the  post  was  mounted. 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  his  reflexions.  Something 
told  him  that  Rieseneck  was  at  hand,  but  he  turned  his  head 
with  studied  calmness  so  that  he  could  see  the  servant's  face, 
and  held  his  pipe  steadily  between  his  teeth. 

"  Herr  Brandt  has  arrived,"  said  the  man,  quietly,  as  though 
nothing  unusual  were  occurring.  Greifenstein,  even  in  that 
moment,  had  the  courage  to  scrutinise  the  attendant's  features, 
but  their  expression  betrayed  no  suspicion. 

"  Show  him  in,"  returned  the  master  of  the  house  in  unshaken 
tones.  He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  fire.  The  light  of  the  flames  was  far  brighter  than  that  of 
the  solitary  lamp  that  stood  upon  the  desk,  and  threw  the  vast 
black  shadow  of  Greifenstein's  gaunt  frame  against  the  opposite 
wall,  so  that  it  towered  up  like  a  spectre  of  fate  from  the  floor 
to  the  carved  brown  beams  of  the  ceiling. 

The  servant  threw  the  door  wide  open  and  stood  aside,  as  a 
tall  old  man  entered  the  room. 


132  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IT  is  doubtful  whether  Greifenstein  would  have  recognised 
his  brother,  if  he  had  met  him  under  any  other  circumstances. 
Forty  years  had  passed  since  they  had  met,  and  both  were  old 
men.  The  difference  between  their  ages  was  not  great,  for 
Greifenstein's  father  had  died  within  the  year  of  his  son's  birth, 
and  his  mother  had  married  again  three  years  later.  In  her 
turn  she  had  died  when  both  were  young  men,  and  from  that 
time  Greifenstein  had  seen  little  of  his  half-brother,  who  had 
been  brought  up  by  his  own  father  in  a  different  part  of  the 
country.  Then  young  Rieseneck  had  entered  the  Prussian  ser 
vice,  and  a  few  years  later  had  been  ruined  by  the  consequences 
of  his  evil  deeds. 

Greifenstein  saw  before  him  a  tall  man,  with  abundant  white 
hair  and  a  snowy  beard,  of  bronzed  complexion,  evidently  strong 
in  spite  of  his  years,  chiefly  remarkable  for  the  heavy  black  eye 
brows  that  shaded  his  small  grey  eyes.  The  latter  were  placed 
too  near  together,  and  the  eyelids  slanted  downwards  at  the 
outer  side,  which  gave  the  face  an  expression  of  intelligence  and 
great  cunning.  Deep  lines  furrowed  the  high  forehead,  and 
descended  in  broad  curves  from  beneath  the  eyes  till  they  lost 
themselves  in  the  beard.  Kuno  von  Rieseneck  was  evidently  a 
man  of  strong  feelings  and  passions,  of  energetic  temperament, 
clever,  unscrupulous,  but  liable  to  go  astray  after  strange  ideas, 
and  possibly  capable  of  something  very  like  fanaticism.  It  was 
indeed  not  credible  that  he  should  have  done  the  deeds  which 
had  wrecked  his  life,  out  of  cold  calculation,  and  yet  it  was 
impossible  to  believe  that  he  could  be  wholly  disinterested  in 
anything  he  did.  The  whole  effect  of  his  personality  was  dis 
quieting. 

He  entered  the  room  with  slow  steps,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  brother.  The  servant  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and 
the  two  men  were  alone.  Rieseneck  paused  when  he  reached 


GREIFENSTEIN.  133 

the  middle  of  the  apartment.  For  a  moment  his  features  moved 
a  little  uneasily,  and  then  he  spoke. 

"  Hugo,  do  you  know  me?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Greifenstein,  "  I  know  you  very  well."  He 
kept  his  hands  behind  him  and  did  not  change  his  position  as 
he  stood  before  the  fire. 

"  You  got  my  letter  ?  "  inquired  the  fugitive. 

"  Yes.     I  will  do  what  you  ask  of  me." 

The  answers  came  in  a  hard,  contemptuous  voice,  for  Greifen 
stein  was  almost  choking  with  rage  at  being  thus  forced  to 
receive  and  protect  a  man  whom  he  both  despised  and  hated. 
But  Rieseneck  did  not  expect  any  very  cordial  welcome,  and  his 
expression  did  not  vary. 

"  I  thank  you,"  he  answered.  "  It  is  the  only  favour  I  ever 
asked  of  you,  and  I  give  you  my  word  it  shall  be  the  last." 

Greifenstein's  piercing  eyes  gleamed  dangerously,  and  for  an 
instant  the  anger  that  burned  in  him  glowed  visibly  in  his  face. 

"Your  —  "  He  would  have  said  "your  word,"  throwing  into 
the  two  syllables  all  the  contempt  he  felt,  for  one  whose  word 
had  been  so  broken.  But  he  checked  himself  gallantly.  In 
spite  of  all,  Rieseneck  was  his  guest  and  had  come  to  him  for 
protection,  and  he  would  not  insult  him.  "You  shall  be  safe 
to-morrow  night,"  he  said,  controlling  his  tongue. 

But  Rieseneck  had  heard  the  first  word,  and  knew  what  should 
have  followed  it.  He  turned  a  little  pale,  bronzed  though  he 
was,  and  he  let  his  hand  rest  upon  the  back  of  a  chair  beside 
him. 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you  further,"  he  said.  "  If  you  will  show 
me  a  place  where  I  can  sleep,  I  will  be  ready  in  the  morning." 

"No,"  answered  Greifenstein.  "That  will  not  do.  The  ser 
vants  know  that  a  visitor  is  in  the  house.  They  will  expect  to 
see  you  at  dinner.  Besides,  you  are  probably  hungry." 

Perhaps  he  regretted  having  shown  his  brother,  even  by  the 
suggestion  of  a  phrase,  what  was  really  in  his  heart,  and  the 
feeling  of  the  ancient  guest-right  made  him  relent  a  little. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  added,  as  Rieseneck  seemed  to  hesitate.  "  It 
will  be  necessary  that  you  dine  with  us  and  meet  my  wife.  We 
must  not  excite  suspicion." 

"  You  are  married  then  ?  "  said  Rieseneck.  It  was  more  like 
a  thoughtful  reflexion  than  a  question.  Though  he  had  written 


134  GREIFENSTEIN. 

to  his  brother  more  than  once,  the  latter's  answers  when  he 
vouchsafed  any,  had  been  curt  and  businesslike  in  the  extreme. 

"  I  have  been  married  five  and  twenty  years,"  Greifenstein 
replied.  It  was  strange  to  be  informing  his  brother  of  the  fact. 

Rieseneck  sat  down  upon  a  high  chair  and  rested  his  elbow 
upon  the  table.  Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time,  but  Greifen 
stein  resumed  his  seat,  relighted  his  pipe,  and  placed  his  feet 
upon  the  fender,  taking  precisely  the  attitude  in  which  he  had 
been  when  his  brother  was  announced.  The  situation  was 
almost  intolerable,  but  his  habits  helped  him  to  bear  it. 

"  I  was  also  married,"  said  Rieseneck  at  last,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  though  speaking  to  himself.  "  You  never  saw  my  wife  ?  "  he 
asked  rather  suddenly. 

"No." 

"She  died,"  continued  the  other.  "It  was  very  long  ago  — 
more  than  thirty  years." 

"Indeed,"  said  Greifenstein,  as  though  he  cared  very  little  to 
hear  more. 

Again  there  was  silence  in  the  room,  broken  only  by  the 
crackling  of  the  fir  logs  in  the  fire  and  by  the  ticking  of  the 
clock  in  its  tall  carved  case  in  the  corner.  A  full  hour  must 
elapse  before  the  evening  meal,  and  Greifenstein  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  his  unwelcome  guest.  At  last  the  latter  took 
out  a  black  South  American  cigar  and  lit  it.  For  a  few  moments 
he  smoked  thoughtfully,  and  then,  as  though  the  fragrant  fumes 
had  the  power  to  unloose  his  tongue,  he  again  began  to  talk. 

"  She  died,"  he  said.  "  She  ruined  me.  Yes,  did  you  never 
hear  how  it  was?  And  yet  I  loved  her.  She  would  not  follow 
me.  Then  they  sent  me  some  of  her  hair  and  the  boy.  But  for 
her,  it  might  never  have  happened,  and  yet  I  forgive  her.  You 
never  heard  how  it  all  happened  V  " 

"I  never  inquired,"  answered  Greifenstein.  "You  say  she 
ruined  you.  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  She  made  me  do  it.  She  was  an  enthusiast  for  liberty  and 
revolution.  She  filled  my  mind  with  ideas  of  the  people's 
sovereignty.  She  talked  of  nothing  else.  She  besought  me 
on  her  knees  to  join  her  party,  as  she  called  it.  She  flattered 
me  with  dreams  of  greatness  in  a  great  republic,  she  illuminated 
crime  in  the  light  of  heroism,  she  pushed  me  into  secret  socie 
ties,  and  laughed  at  me  for  my  want  of  courage.  I  loved  her, 


GBEIFENSTELN.  135 

and  she  made  a  fool  of  me,  worse  than  a  fool,  a  traitor,  worse 
than  a  traitor,  a  murderer,  for  she  persuaded  me  to  give  the 
arms  to  the  mob,  she  made  me  an  outlaw,  an  exile,  an  object 
of  hatred  to  my  countrymen,  a  thing  loathsome  to  all  who 
knew  me.  And  yet  I  loved  her,  even  when  it  was  all  over,  and 
I  would  have  given  my  soul  to  have  her  with  me." 

Greifenstein's  face  expressed  unutterable  contempt  for  this 
man,  who  in  the  strength  and  pride  of  youth  had  laid  down  his 
honour  for  a  woman's  word,  not  even  for  her  love,  since  he  had 
possessed  that  already. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "  that  there  was  one  very  simple 
remedy  for  you." 

"  A  little  lead  in  the  right  place.  I  know.  And  yet  I  lived, 
and  I  live  still.  Why?  I  do  not  know.  I  believed  in  the 
revolution,  though  she  had  forced  the  belief  upon  me,  and  I 
continued  to  believe  in  it  until  long  after  I  went  to  South 
America.  And  when  I  had  ceased  to  believe  in  it,  no  one  cared 
whether  I  lived  or  died.  Then  came  this  hope,  and  this  blow. 
I  could  almost  do  it  now." 

Greifenstein  looked  at  him  curiously  for  a  moment,  and  then 
rose  from  his  place  and  went  deliberately  to  a  huge,  dark  piece 
of  furniture  that  stood  between  the  windows.  He  brought 
back  a  polished  mahogany  case,  unlocked  it  and  set  it  beside 
his  brother  upon  the  table,  under  the  light  of  the  lamp. 

Rieseneck  knew  what  he  meant  well  enough,  but  he  did  not 
wince.  On  the  contrary  he  opened  the  case  and  looked  at  the 
beautiful  weapon,  as  it  lay  all  loaded  and  ready  for  use  in  its 
bed  of  green  baize  cloth.  Then  he  laid  it  on  the  table  again, 
and  pushed  it  a  little  away  from  him. 

"Xot  now,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  am  in  your  house.  Ypu 
would  have  to  declare  my  identity.  It  would  make  a  scandal. 
I  will  not  do  it." 

"  You  had  better  put  it  into  your  pocket,"  answered  Greifen 
stein  grimly,  but  without  a  trace  of  unkindness  in  his  voice. 
"  You  may  like  to  have  it  about  you,  you  know." 

Rieseneck  looked  at  his  brother  in  silence  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  then  took  the  thing  once  more  in  his  hands. 

"Do  you  mean  it  as  a  gift?"  he  asked.  "You  might  not 
care  to  claim  it  afterwards." 

"Yes." 


136  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"I  thank  you."  He  took  the  revolver  from  the  case,  exam 
ined  it  attentively  and  then  slipped  it  into  his  breast-pocket. 
"  I  thank  you,"  he  repeated.  "  I  do  not  possess  one." 

Greifenstein  wondered  whether  Bieseneck  would  have  the 
courage  to  act  upon  the  suggestion.  To  him  there  was  nothing 
horrible  in  the  idea.  He  was  merely  offering  this  despicable 
creature  the  means  of  escape  from  the  world's  contempt.  He 
himself,  in  such  a  case,  would  have  taken  his  own  life  long  ago, 
and  he  could  not  understand  that  any  man  should  hesitate  when 
the  proper  course  lay  so  very  clear  before  him.  He  went  back 
to  his  seat  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened.  Then,  as 
though  to  turn  the  conversation,  he  began  to  speak  of  the  plans 
for  the  morrow.  He  did  not  really  believe  in  his  brother's 
intentions,  but  as  an  honourable  man,  according  to  his  lights, 
he  considered  that  he  had  done  his  4u^y  i11  giving  *ne  weapon. 

"  We  can  ride  a  long  distance,"  he  said,  "  and  then  we  can 
walk.  When  you  are  once  at  the  lake,  you  can  find  a  boat 
which  will  take  you  over.  I  warn  you  that  it  is  far." 

"  It  will  be  enough  if  you  show  me  the  way,"  answered 
Rieseneck  absently.  "You  are  very  kind." 

"It  is  my  interest, "said  Greifenstein,  unwilling  that  his  feel 
ings  should  be  misinterpreted.  Then  he  relapsed  into  silence. 

Of  the  two,  Rieseneck  was  the  more  at  his  ease.  Possibly  he 
did  not  realise  how  his  brother  despised  him.  Moreover,  he 
had  associated  during  many  years  with  people  of  many  nations, 
and  he  did  not  feel  at  once  that  his  brother  was  so  very  different 
from  these,  or  so  very  differently  situated  towards  him.  His 
mind,  too,  was  somewhat  unbalanced  by  the  shock  he  had  lately 
received,  and  his  attention  was  concentrated  upon  himself  rather 
than  upon  the  things  and  persons  he  saw.  During  the  greater 
part  of  his  life  he  had  made  use  of  his  acute  intelligence  in  his 
dealings  with  the  world,  and  under  any  other  circumstances  he 
would  in  all  likelihood  have  made  a  determined  effort  to  gain 
his  brother's  sympathy.  But  in  the  refusal  of  his  application 
for  a  pardon  he  had  believed  certain,  he  had  suffered  a  severe 
blow.  Deep  in  his  tortuous  nature  there  existed  at  least  one 
sincere  and  good  quality,  which  was  his  passionate  love  for  his 
native  country.  It  had  been  distorted  indeed,  through  the 
influence  of  another  strong  affection,  the  love  for  his  wife  while 
she  had  lived,  and,  being  misdirected  by  her  agency,  the  very 


GREIFENSTEIN.  137 

strength  of  his  patriotism  had  been  the  chief  cause  of  his  ruin. 
Now,  however,  forty  years  of  exile  had  effaced  all  belief  in 
parties  or  in  the  efficacy  of  revolutionary  change,  and  had  left 
him  nothing  but  the  original  love  of  his  native  land,  for  itself, 
as  it  was,  or  as  it  might  be,  were  it  empire,  kingdom,  or  republic. 
What  did  it  matter,  whether  Germany  were  subject  to  one  form 
of  government  or  to  another  ?  Time  had  softened  his  hatreds 
and  had  spread  its  dim  mantle  over  his  own  disgrace,  while  it 
had  exalted  his  beloved  nation  among  all  the  nations  of  the 
earth.  Germany's  victories,  Germany's  unity,  the  glory  of  her 
imperial  race,  the  pride  of  her  iron  statesmen,  the  untold  possi 
bilities  of  her  future  existence,  all  were  his,  as  they  belonged  to 
every  born  German  by  right,  to  share  in  and  to  rejoice  over 
with  all  his  heart.  For  forty  years  he  had  dreamed  of  return 
ing,  if  it  were  only  to  live  under  an  unknown  name  in  some 
quiet  hamlet,  if  it  were  merely  for  the  sake  of  feeling  that 
he  was  like  a  nameless  drop  of  the  blood  that  flowed  in  his 
country's  veins.  He  asked  nothing  but  the  permission  to  end 
his  life  upon  the  soil  whereon  he  had  been  born.  Few  years 
remained  to  him,  and  he  could  have  done  no  harm,  even  had  he 
wished  it.  His  request  had  been  refused,  as  Greifenstein  had 
foreseen  that  it  must  be,  on  the  ground  that  he  was  not  a  polit 
ical  delinquent,  but  a  military  criminal,  on  the  plea  that  the 
forgiveness  of  such  a  misdeed  would  be  contrary  to  all  prece 
dent,  and  would  constitute  a  very  bad  example.  Those  unbend 
ing  principles  by  which  Germany  had  risen  to  her  high  place 
would  not  yield  a  hair's-breadth  for  all  the  supplications  of  a 
man  who  had  betrayed  his  trust,  though  he  were  old  and  broken 
down,  harmless,  and  even,  perhaps,  somewhat  to  be  pitied. 
The  law  was  not  made  for  the  young  rather  than  for  the 
aged  ;  it  was  the  same  for  all,  unchangingly  just  and  pitilessly 
conscientious. 

But  Rieseneck  had  suffered  in  the  one  tender  spot  that 
remained  in  his  heart,  and  the  wound  had  deadened  his  sensi 
bilities  in  all  other  respects,  while  it  had  slightly  disturbed  the 
balance  of  his  faculties.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  he  would 
have  spoken  of  his  dead  wife  as  he  did,  if  he  had  realised 
exactly  what  Greifenstein  felt  towards  him.  The  sufferings  of 
the  last  week  had  revived  in  him  the  memories  of  long  ago,  and 
he  had  talked  almost  against  his  will  of  what  was  in  his  mind. 


138  GREIFENSTEIN. 

He  sat  silently  by  the  table,  and  finished  his  cigar.  As  he 
threw  away  the  stump  that  remained,  Greifenstein  looked  at  the 
clock  and  laid  down  his  pipe. 

"  We  dine  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  he  observed,  rising  to  his 
feet.  Rieseneck  rose,  too,  and  spread  his  broad  thin  hands  to 
the  blaze  of  the  fire. 

"  There  is  a  room  here  which  is  conveniently  situated  for 
you,"  said  Greifenstein  opening  a  door,  and  then  striking  a 
match  to  show  the  way.  He  lighted  the  candles  upon  the  dress 
ing-table  and  turned  to  his  brother.  Rieseneck  was  looking  at 
him  with  a  singularly  disagreeable  expression,  which  Greifen 
stein  could  not  understand. 

The  simple  action  had  roused  the  exile's  hatred  and  jealousy. 
During  the  last  hour  he  had  thought  little  of  where  he  was ; 
now  he  suddenly  realised  the  extent  of  what  he  had  forfeited. 
There  was  nothing  especial,  in  the  simply  furnished  bedroom, 
to  account  for  his  feelings.  The  thought  that  hurt  him  em 
braced  far  more  than  that.  He  saw  his  brother  rich,  honourable, 
respected,  living  in  his  ancestral  home,  in  his  own  country  and 
possessing  a  full  right  to  all  he  enjoyed.  He  did  not  know  that 
there  were  rarely  guests  in  Greifenstein  ;  he  only  saw  how 
natural  it  was  that  they  should  come,  and  he  hated  his  brother 
for  his  power  to  live  as  his  fathers  had  lived  before  him,  and  to 
entertain  whom  he  pleased  under  his  own  roof.  He  thought 
bitterly  of  his  own  beautiful  home  in  Chili,  for  his  affairs  had 
prospered  in  his  exile,  and  he  had  lived  in  a  princely  fashion. 
He  had  lacked  nothing  for  many  a  long  year,  saving  only  the 
right  to  build  his  home  upon  an  acre  of  German  ground.  But 
that  he  could  not  have,  and  that  he  envied  his  brother  with  all 
his  heart.  Greifenstein,  however,  paid  no  attention  to  the 
angry  light  in  Rieseneck's  eyes. 

"You  will  find  the  room  convenient,"  he  said.  "You  can 
lock  your  door,  and  if  there  should  be  any  pursuit  and  the 
police  should  come  here  you  have  only  to  go  through  that 
press.  There  is  a  door  in  the  back  of  it.  Look." 

lie  opened  the  panel  and  held  the  light  forward  into  the  dark 
way  beyond. 

"  Where  does  that  lead  to?"  inquired  Rieseneck. 

"  To  a  small  room  in  the  thickness  of  the  main  wall.  Thence 
a  winding  stair  descends  to  a  passage.  Follow  that  and  you 
will  come  out  in  the  Hunger-Thurm." 


GKEIFEN  STEIN.  139 

Such  devices  are  common  in  buildings  of  the  old  time  in 
Germany,  and  Rieseneck  manifested  no  surprise.  He  only 
nodded  gravely.  Greifenstein  closed  the  panel  and  then  left 
him  alone.  Rieseneck,  however,  determined  that  before  going 
to  rest  he  would  follow  the  passage  to  the  end  and  ascertain 
whether  it  really  afforded  a  means  of  escape,  or  whether  his 
brother  had  contrived  a  trap  for  him.  In  the  meanwhile  the 
ordeal  of  dinner  was  before  him,  and  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  assume  the  part  of  the  visitor,  lest  Greifenstein's  wife 
should  suspect  anything.  He  wondered  vaguely  what  sort  of 
woman  she  was  and  whether  she  knew  of  his  existence. 

Greifenstein  took  the  precaution  of  sending  word  to  his  wife 
that  there  was  a  visitor  in  the  castle.  In  her  nervous  state  he 
feared  lest  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  stranger  might  agitate 
her,  and  although  he  had  long  abandoned  the  idea  that  she  knew 
anything  of  Rieseneck,  his  cautious  mind  admitted  the  pure 
possibility  of  their  having  been  previously  acquainted.  Even 
in  that  extreme  case,  however,  he  could  not  believe  a  recogni 
tion  probable,  for  he  himself  would  certainly  not  have  known 
Rieseneck,  nor  admitted  that  the  bearded  old  man  was  the 
person  from  whom  he  had  parted  forty  years  before.  Greifen 
stein's  chief  thought  was  to  get  the  man  away  and  out  of  the 
country  without  any  unpleasant  incident,  and  in  order  to 
accomplish  his  purpose  he  forced  himself  to  behave  in  his  usual 
manner.  After  all,  twenty-four  hours  would  settle  the  matter, 
and  the  first  of  the  twenty -four  was  already  passed. 

When  Clara  heard  that  there  was  to  be  a  guest  at  dinner,  her 
first  sensation  was  one  of  extreme  terror,  but  she  was  reassured 
by  the  information  her  maid  gave  concerning  the  general  appear 
ance  of  Herr  Brandt.  The  woman  had  not  seen  him,  but  had 
of  course  heard  at  once  a  full  description  of  his  personality.  He 
was  described  as  a  tall  old  gentleman,  exceedingly  well  dressed, 
though  he  had  arrived  on  foot  and  without  luggage.  The 
maid  supposed  that  his  effects  would  follow  him,  since  he  had 
chosen  to  walk.  Beyond  that,  Clara  could  ascertain  nothing, 
but  it  was  clear  that  she  did  not  consider  the  details  she 
learned  as  descriptive  of  the  person  whose  coming  she  feared. 
On  the  contrary,  the  prospect  of  a  little  change  from  the  usual 
monotony  of  the  evening  had  the  effect  of  exhilarating  her  spir 
its,  and  she  bestowed  even  more  attention  than  usual  upon  the 
adornment  of  her  thin  person.  The  nature  of  the  woman  could 


140  GREIFENSTEIN. 

not  die.  Her  natural  vanity  was  so  extraordinary  that  it 
might  have  been  expected  to  survive  death  itself.  She  be 
longed  to  that  strange  class  of  people  who  foresee  even  the 
effect  they  will  produce  when  they  are  dead,  who  leave  elabo 
rate  directions  for  the  disposal  of  their  bodies  in  the  most 
becoming  manner,  and  who  build  for  themselves  appropriate 
tombs  while  they  are  alive,  decorated  in  a  style  agreeable  to 
their  tastes.  Clara  arrayed  herself  in  all  her  glory  for  the 
feast ;  she  twisted  the  ringlets  of  her  abundant  faded  hair, 
until  each  covered  at  least  one  obnoxious  line  of  forehead  and 
temples ;  she  laid  the  delicate  colour  upon  her  sunken  cheeks 
with  amazing  precision,  and  shaded  it  artistically  with  the  soft 
hare's  foot,  till  it  was  blended  with  the  whiteness  of  the  adja 
cent  pearl  powder ;  she  touched  the  colourless  eyebrows  with 
the  pointed  black  stick  of  cosmetic  that  lay  ready  to  her  hand 
in  its  small  silver  case,  and  made  her  yellow  nails  shine  with 
pink  paste  and  doeskin  rubbers  till  they  reflected  the  candle 
light  like  polished  horn.  With  the  utmost  care  she  adjusted 
the  rare  old  lace  to  hide  the  sinewy  lines  of  her  emaciated 
throat,  and  then,  observing  the  effect  as  her  maid  held  a  second 
mirror  beside  her  face,  she  hastened  to  touch  the  shrivelled  lobes 
of  her  ears  with  a  delicate  rose  colour  that  set  off  the  brilliancy 
of  the  single  diamonds  she  wore  as  earrings.  She  opened  and 
shut  her  eyelids  quickly  to  make  her  eyes  brighter,  and  held  up 
her  hands  so  that  the  blood  should  leave  the  raised  network  of 
the  purple  veins  less  swollen  and  apparent.  The  patient  tire 
woman  gave  one  last  scrutinising  glance  and  adjusted  the  rich 
folds  of  the  silk  gown  with  considerable  art,  although  such 
taste  as  she  possessed  was  outraged  at  the  effect  of  the  pale 
straw  colour  when  worn  by  such  an  aged  beauty.  Another 
look  into  the  tall  mirror,  and  Clara  von  Greifenstein  was  satis 
fied.  She  had  done  what  she  could  do  to  beautify  herself,  to 
revive  in  her  own  eyes  some  faint  memory  of  that  prettiness 
she  had  once  seen  reflected  in  her  glass,  and  she  believed  that 
she  had  not  altogether  failed.  She  even  smiled  contentedly  at 
her  maid,  before  she  left  the  chamber  to  go  to  the  drawing- 
room.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  show  herself  to  some  one,  it  was 
a  relief  from  the  thoughts  that  had  tormented  her  so  long,  it 
was  a  respite  from  her  husband's  perpetual  effort  to  amuse  her 
by  reading  aloud.  For  a  few  hours  at  least  she  was  to  hear  the 
sound  of  an  unfamiliar  voice,  to  enjoy  the  refreshing  effect  of  a 


GREIFENSTEIN.  141 

slight  motion  in  the  stagnant  pool  of  worn-out  ideas  that  sur 
rounded  her  little  island  of  life. 

She  drew  herself  up  and  walked  delicately,  as  she  went  into 
the  drawing-room.  She  had  judged  that  her  entrance  would  be 
effective,  and  had  timed  her  coming  so  as  to  be  sure  that  her 
husband  and  Herr  Brandt  should  be  there  before  her.  The 
room  looked  just  as  it  usually  did  ;  it  was  luxurious,  large,  warm 
and  softly  lighted.  Clara  almost  forgot  her  age  so  far  as  to 
wish  that  there  had  been  more  lamps,  though  the  shade  was 
undeniably  advantageous  to  her  looks.  She  came  forward,  and 
saw  that  the  two  men  were  standing  together  before  the  fire. 
The  door  had  moved  noiselessly  on  its  hinges,  but  the  rustle  of 
the  silk  gown  made  Greifenstein  and  Rieseneck  turn  their  heads 
simultaneously.  Clara's  eyes  rested  on  the  stranger  with  some 
curiosity,  and  she  noticed  with  satisfaction  that  his  gaze  fixed 
itself  upon  her  own  face.  He  was  evidently  impressed  by  her 
appearance,  and  her  vain  old  heart  fluttered  pleasantly. 

"  Permit  me  to  present  Herr  Brandt,"  said  Greifenstein,  mak 
ing  a  step  forward. 

Clara  inclined  her  head  with  an  expression  that  was  intended 
to  be  affable,  and  Rieseneck  bowed  gravely.  She  sank  into  a 
chair  and  looking  up,  saw  that  he  was  watching  her  with  evi 
dent  interest.  It  struck  her  that  he  was  a  very  pale  man,  and 
though  she  had  at  first  been  pleased  by  his  stare,  she  began  to 
feel  uncomfortable,  as  it  continued. 

"You are  old  friends,  I  suppose,"  she  remarked,  glancing  at 
her  husband  with  a  smile. 

Both  men  bent  their  heads  in  assent. 

"  I  had  the  honour  of  knowing  Herr  von  Greifenstein  when 
we  were  both  very  young,"  said  Rieseneck  after  a  pause  that 
had  threatened  to  be  awkward. 

"Indeed?  And  you  have  not  met  for  a  long  time!  How 
very  strange !  But  life  is  full  of  such  things,  you  know  !  "  She 
laughed  nervously. 

While  she  was  speaking,  the  intonations  of  Rieseneck's  voice 
seemed  to  be  still  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  the  vibrations  touched 
a  chord  of  her  memory  very  painfully,  so  that  she  forgot  what 
she  was  saying  and  hid  her  confusion  in  a  laugh.  Greifenstein 
was  staring  at  the  ceiling  and  did  not  see  his  brother  start  and 
steady  himself  against  the  chimney-piece. 

At  that  moment  dinner  was  announced.     Clara  rose  with  an 


142  GREIFENSTEIN. 

effort  from  her  seat,  and  stood  still.  She  supposed  that  Herr 
Brandt  would  offer  her  his  arm,  but  he  did  not  move  from  his 
place.  Greifenstein  said  nothing.  A  violent  conflict  arose  in 
his  mind  and  made  him  hesitate.  He  could  not  bear  the  idea 
of  seeing  his  wife  touch  even  the  sleeve  of  the  man  he  so  de 
spised,  and  yet  he  dreaded  lest  any  exhibition  of  his  feelings 
should  make  Clara  suspicious.  The  last  consideration  out 
weighed  everything  else. 

"  Will  you  give  my  wife  your  arm  ? "  he  said,  addressing 
Rieseneck  very  coldly. 

There  was  no  choice,  and  the  tall  old  man  went  to  Clara's 
side,  and  led  her  out  of  the  room,  while  Greifenstein  followed 
alone.  They  sat  down  to  the  round  table,  which  was  laden  with 
heavy  plate  and  curious  pieces  of  old  German  silver,  and  was 
illuminated  by  a  hanging  lamp.  A  hundred  persons  might 
have  dined  in  the  room,  and  the  shadows  made  the  panelled 
walls  seem  even  further  from  the  centre  than  they  really  were. 
Vast  trophies  of  skulls  and  antlers  and  boars'  heads  loomed  up 
in  the  distance,  indistinctly  visible  through  the  dim  shade,  but 
lighted  up  occasionally  by  the  sudden  flare  of  the  logs  from  the 
wide  hearth.  The  flashes  of  flame  made  the  stags'  skulls  seem 
to  grin  horribly  and  gleamed  strangely  upon  the  white  tusks 
that  protruded  from  the  black  boars'  heads,  and  reflected  a  deep 
red  glare  from  their  artificial  eyes  of  coloured  glass.  The  ser 
vants  stepped  noiselessly  upon  the  dark  carpet,  while  the  three 
persons  who  shared  the  solemn  banquet  sat  silently  in  their 
places,  pretending  to  partake  of  the  food  that  was  placed  before 
them. 

The  meal  was  a  horrible  farce.  There  was  something  sombrely 
contemptible  to  each  one  in  the  idea  of  being  forced  into  the 
pretence  of  eating,  for  the  sake  of  the  hired  attendants  who 
carried  the  dishes.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Greifenstein's 
hardy  nature  was  disgusted  by  the  sight  of  food.  Rieseneck 
sat  erect  in  his  chair,  from  time  to  time  swallowing  a  glass  of 
strong  wine,  and  looking  from  Clara's  face  to  the  fork  he  held 
in  his  hand.  She  herself  exercised  a  woman's  privilege  and 
refused  everything,  staring  consistently  at  the  monumental 
silver  ornament  in  the  midst  of  the  table.  When  she  looked 
up,  Rieseneck's  white  face  scared  her.  She  had  no  need  to  see 
it  now,  for  she  knew  who  he  was  better  than  any  one,  better 
than  Greifenstein  himself.  That  power  whose  presence  she 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  143 

had  once  felt,  when  alone  with  her  husband,  was  not  with  her 
now.  A  deadly  fear  overcame  every  other  instinct  save  that  of 
self-preservation.  She  struggled  to  maintain  her  place  at  the 
table,  to  control  the  shriek  of  horror  that  was  on  her  lips,  as  she 
had  struggled  to  produce  that  feigned  laugh  ten  days  ago,  with 
all  her  might.  But  the  protracted  strain  was  almost  more  than 
she  could  bear,  and  she  felt  that  her  exhausted  nerves  might 
leave  her  helpless  at  any  moment.  She  had  read  in  books 
vivid  descriptions  of  the  agony  of  death,  but  she  had  never 
fancied  that  it  could  be  so  horrible  as  this,  so  long  drawn  out, 
so  overwhelmingly  bitter. 

In  truth,  a  more  fearful  ordeal  could  not  be  imagined,  than 
was  imposed  by  a  relentless  destiny  upon  this  miserable,  painted, 
curled  and  jewelled  old  woman  as  she  sat  at  the  head  of  her 
own  table.  It  would  have  been  easier  for  her,  had  she  known 
that  she  was  to  meet  him.  It  would  have  been  far  less  hard,  if 
she  had  lived  her  life  in  the  whirl  of  the  world,  where  we  are 
daily  forced  to  look  our  misdeeds  in  the  face  and  to  meet  with 
smiling  indifference  those  who  know  our  past  and  have  them 
selves  been  a  part  of  it.  Even  a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  prepara 
tion  would  have  been  better  than  this  gradual  recognition,  in 
which  each  minute  made  certainty  more  positive.  There  was 
but  one  ray  of  consolation  or  hope  for  her,  and  she  tried  to 
make  the  most  of  it.  He  had  come  because  he  had  failed  to 
obtain  his  pardon,  and  his  brother  was  helping  him  to  leave  the 
country  quietly.  She  was  as  sure  of  it,  as  though  she  had  been 
acquainted  with  all  the  details.  To-morrow  he  would  be  gone, 
and  once  gone  he  would  never  return,  and  her  last  years  would  be 
free  from  fear.  The  fact  that  he  came  under  a  false  name  showed 
that  she  was  right.  In  an  hour  she  could  excuse  herself  and  go 
to  her  room,  never  to  see  his  face  again.  Her  hands  grasped  and 
crushed  the  damask  of  the  cloth  beneath  the  table,  as  she  tried 
to  steady  her  nerves  by  contemplating  her  near  deliverance  from 
torture. 

Greifenstein  was  the  bravest  of  the  three,  as  he  had  also  the 
least  cause  for  anxiety.  He  saw  that  it  was  impossible  to  con 
tinue  the  meal  in  total  silence,  and  he  made  a  tremendous  effort 
to  produce  a  show  of  conversation. 

"  There  has  been  much  snow  this  year,  Herr  Brandt,"  he  said, 
raising  his  head  and  addressing  his  brother. 

Bieseneck  did  not  understand,  but  he  heard  Greifenstein's 
voice,  and  slowly  turned  his  ghastly  face  towards  him. 


144  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  quite  hear." 

"  There  has  been  much  snow  this  year,"  Greifenstein  repeated 
with  forcible  distinctness. 

"  Yes,"  replied  his  brother,  "it  seems  so." 

"  After  all,  it  is  nearly  Christmas,"  said  Clara,  trembling  in 
every  limb  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice. 

Only  an  hour  more  to  bear,  and  she  would  be  safe  for  ever. 
Only  another  effort  and  Greifenstein  would  suspect  nothing. 
Itieseneck  looked  mechanically  at  his  brother,  as  though  he  were 
trying  to  find  something  to  say.  In  reality  he  was  almost  in 
sensible,  and  he  hardly  knew  why  he  did  not  fall  from  his  chair. 
A  servant  brought  another  dish  and  Clara  helped  herself  uncon 
sciously.  The  man  went  on  to  Rieseneck,  and  waited  patiently 
until  the  latter  should  turn  his  head  and  see  what  was  offered  to 
him. 

Clara  saw  an  opportunity  of  speaking  again.  She  could  call 
his  attention  by  addressing  him.  One,  two,  three  seconds 
passed,  and  then  she  spoke.  It  would  be  enough  to  utter  his 
name,  so  that  he  should  look  round  and  see  the  attendant  at 
his  elbow.  "  Herr  Brandt "  —  the  two  syllables  were  short  and 
simple  enough. 

"  Herr  von  Rieseneck,"  she  said  quietly. 

In  the  extremity  of  her  nervousness,  her  brain  had  become 
suddenly  confused  and  she  was  lost. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  145 


CHAPTER  XII. 

As  the  words  escaped  Clara's  lips,  Greifenstein  started  vio 
lently  and  made  as  though  he  would  rise,  laying  his  hands  on 
the  edge  of  the  table  and  leaning  forward  towards  his  wife. 
The  echo  of  Rieseneck's  name  had  not  died  away  when  the  un 
happy  woman  realised  what  she  had  done.  Rieseneck  himself 
turned  suddenly  towards  her  and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  pale 
face.  Clara's  head  fell  forward  and  she  covered  her  eyes  with 
her  hands,  uttering  a  short,  sharp  cry  like  that  of  an  animal 
mortally  wounded.  The  servant  stood  still  at  Rieseneck's  side, 
staring  stupidly  from  one  to  the  other.  Fully  ten  seconds 
elapsed  before  Greifenstein  recovered  his  presence  of  mind. 

"  You  are  ill,  Clara,"  he  said  in  a  choking  voice.  "  I  will  take 
you  to  your  room." 

He  did  riot  understand  the  situation,  and  he  could  not  guess 
how  his  wife  had  learned  that  the  visitor  was  not  Herr  Brandt 
but  Kuno  von  Rieseneck.  But  he  was  horrified  by  the  thought 
that  she  should  have  made  the  discovery,  and  his  first  idea  was 
to  get  her  away  as  soon  as  possible.  He  came  to  her  side,  and 
saw  that  she  was  helpless,  if  not  insensible.  Then  he  lifted  her 
from  her  chair  and  carried  her  through  the  wide  door  and  the 
small  apartment  beyond  into  the  drawing-room.  Rieseneck  fol 
lowed  at  a  distance. 

"  You  can  go,"  said  Greifenstein  to  the  servant.  "We  shall 
not  want  any  more  dinner  to-night." 

The  man  went  out  and  left  the  three  together.  Clara  lay  upon 
a  great  divan,  her  husband  standing  at  her  side,  and  Rieseneck 
at  her  feet.  Her  eyes  were  open,  but  they  were  glassy  with  terror, 
though  she  was  quite  conscious. 

"  Clara  —  are  you  better?"  asked  Greifenstein  anxiously. 

She  gasped  for  breath  and  seemed  unable  to  speak.  Greifen 
stein  looked  at  his  brother. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  how  she  knew  your  name,"  he  said.  "  Did 
you  know  her  before  ?  " 


146  GREIFENSTEIN. 

Rieseneck  had  turned  white  again  and  stood  twisting  his  fin 
gers  as  though  in  some  terrible  distress.  Greifenstein  had  not 
noticed  his  manner  before,  and  gazed  at  him  now  in  considerable 
surprise.  He  fancied  that  Rieseneck  feared  discovery  and  danger 
to  himself. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked  impatiently.  "  You  are  safe 
enough  yet  —  " 

While  he  spoke  Clara  endeavoured  to  rise,  supporting  herself 
upon  one  hand,  and  staring  wildly  at  Rieseneck.  The  presenti 
ment  of  a  great  unknown  evil  came  upon  Greifenstein,  and  he 
laid  his  hand  heavily  upon  his  brother's  arm. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  asked  sternly.  "Do  you 
know  each  other  ?  " 

The  words  roused  Rieseneck.  He  drew  back  from  his  brother's 
touch  and  answered  in  a  broken  voice  : 

"  Let  me  go.     Let  me  leave  this  house  —  " 

"No !  "  exclaimed  the  other  firmly.     "  You  shall  not  go  yet." 

Again  he  grasped  Rieseneck's  arm,  this  time  with  no  intention 
of  relinquishing  his  hold. 

"  Let  him  go,  Hugo ! "  gasped  Clara.  She  struggled  to  her 
feet  and  tried  to  unloose  the  iron  grip  of  her  husband's  fingers, 
straining  her  weak  hands  in  the  useless  attempt.  "  Let  him  go !  " 
she  repeated  frantically.  "  For  God's  sake  let  him  go  !  " 

"What  is  he  to  you?"  asked  Greifenstein.  Then,  as  though 
he  guessed  some  fearful  answer  to  his  question  he  repeated  it  in 
a  fiercer  tone.  "  What  is  he  to  you  ?  And  what  are  you  to  her  ?  " 
he  cried,  facing  his  brother  as  he  shook  him  by  the  arm. 

"  You  have  cause  to  be  angry,"  said  Rieseneck.  "  And  so  have 
I."  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  Clara's,  and  something  like  a  smile 
flitted  over  his  features. 

"Speak!"  commanded  Greifenstein,  to  whom  the  suspense 
was  becoming  unbearable. 

Clara  saw  that  Rieseneck  was  about  to  utter  the  fatal  words, 
and  with  a  last  remnant  of  energy  she  made  a  desperate  attempt 
to  cover  his  mouth  with  her  hand.  But  she  was  too  late. 

"  This  woman  is  my  wife,  not  yours !  "  he  cried  in  ringing 
tones. 

In  an  instant  Greifenstein  thrust  his  brother  from  him,  so  that 
he  reeled  back  against  the  wall. 

"  Liar !  "  he  almost  yelled. 

Clara  fell  upon  the  floor  between  the  two  men,  a  shapeless 


GREIFENSTEIN.  147 

heap  of  finery.  Rieseneck  looked  his  brother  in  the  face  and 
answered  the  insult  callnly.  From  the  moment  when  he  had 
recognised  Clara,  he  had  felt  that  he  must  see  the  whole  horror  of 
her  fall  with  his  own  eyes  in  order  to  be  avenged  for  his  wrongs. 

"  I  told  you  my  wife  was  dead,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  believed 
it.  She  is  alive.  She  has  lived  to  ruin  you  as  she  ruined 
me.  Clara  von  Rieseneck  —  that  is  your  name  —  stand  upon 
your  feet  —  lift  up  your  infamous  face,  and  own  your  lawful 
husband ! " 

Even  then  Clara  might  have  saved  herself.  One  vigorous 
protest,  and  Greifeustein  would  without  doubt  have  slain  his 
brother  with  his  hands.  But  she  had  not  the  strength  left  to 
speak  the  strong  lie.  She  dragged  herself  to  her  accuser's  feet 
and  threw  her  arms  about  his  knees. 

"  Mercy  !  "  she  could  not  utter  any  other  word. 

"  You  see,"  said  Rieseneck.     "  She  is  alive,  she  knows  me !  " 

"  Mercy !  "  groaned  the  wretched  creature,  fawning  upon  him 
with  her  wasted  hands. 

"  Down,  beast ! "  answered  the  tall  old  man  with  savage  con 
tempt.  "  There  is  no  mercy  for  such  as  you." 

Greifenstein  had  stood  still  for  some  seconds,  overcome  by 
the  horror  of  his  shame.  One  glance  told  him  that  his  brother 
had  spoken  the  truth.  He  turned  away  and  stood  facing  the 
empty  room.  His  face  was  convulsed,  his  teeth  ground  upon 
each  other,  his  hands  were  clenched  as  in  the  agony  of  death. 
From  his  straining  eyes  great  tears  rolled  down  his  grey  cheeks, 
the  first  and  the  last  that  he  ever  shed.  And  yet  by  that  strange 
instinct  of  his  character  which  abhorred  all  manifestation  of 
emotion,  he  stood  erect  and  motionless,  as  a  soldier  on  parade. 
The  death-blow  had  struck  him,  but  he  must  die  on  his  feet. 

Then  after  a  long  pause,  broken  only  by  Clara's  incoherent 
groans  and  sobs,  he  heard  Rieseneck's  footstep  behind  him,  and 
then  his  brother's  voice,  calling  him  by  his  name. 

"  Hugo  —  what  has  this  woman  deserved  ?  " 

"  Death,"  answered  Greifenstein  solemnly. 

"  She  helped  to  ruin  me  through  my  faults,  she  has  ruined 
you  through  no  fault  of  yours.  She  must  die." 

"  She  must  die,"  repeated  Greifenstein. 

"  She  has  given  you  a  son  who  is  nameless.  She  cast  off  the 
son  she  bore  to  me  because  through  me  his  name  was  infamous. 
She  must  pay  the  penalty." 


148  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  She  must  die." 

Greifenstein  did  not  turn  round  even  then.  He  crossed  the 
room  to  the  chimney-piece  and  laid  his  two  hands  upon  it.  Still 
he  heard  his  brother's  voice,  though  the  words  were  no  longer 
addressed  to  him. 

"  Clara  von  Rieseneck,  your  hour  is  come." 

"  Mercy,  Kuno  !     For  God's  sake  — 

"There  is  no  mercy.  Confess  your  crime.  The  time  is 
short." 

The  wretched  old  woman  tried  to  rise,  but  Rieseneck's  hand 
kept  her  upon  her  knees. 

"You  shall  do  me  this  justice  before  you  go,"  he  said. 
"  Repeat  your  misdeeds  after  me.  You,  Clara  Kurtz,  were 
married  to  me  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  forty-seven." 

"  Yes  —  it  is  true,"  answered  the  poor  creature  in  broken  tones. 

"  Say  it !     You  shall  say  the  words !  " 

Her  teeth  chattered.  Transfixed  by  fear,  her  lips  moved 
mechanically. 

"  I,  Clara  Kurtz,  was  married  to  you  in  the  year  eighteen 
hundred  and  forty-seven." 

The  woman's  incredible  vanity  survived  everything.  Her 
voice  sank  to  a  whisper  at  the  two  last  words  of  the  date,  for 
Greifenstein  had  never  known  her  real  age. 

"  You  caused  me  to  betray  the  arsenal,"  continued  Rieseneck 
inexorably. 

"  I  did." 

"  You  abandoned  me  when  I  was  in  prison.  When  I  escaped 
you  refused  to  follow  me.  You  sent  me  false  news  of  your 
death,  with  a  lock  of  your  hair  and  the  child." 

Clara  repeated  each  word,  like  a  person  hypnotised  and  subject 
to  the  will  of  another. 

"  Then  you  must  have  changed  your  name." 

"  I  changed  my  name." 

"  And  you  induced  Hugo  von  Greifenstein  to  marry  you, 
knowing  that  he  was  my  brother  and  that  I  was  alive.  I  had 
often  told  you  of  him." 

Clara  made  the  statement  in  the  words  dictated. 

"And  now  you  are  to  die,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy 
upon  your  sinful  soul." 

"  And  now  I  am  to  die.  May  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  my 
sinful  soul." 


GREIFENSTEIN.  149 

Released  from  the  stern  command  of  her  judge,  Clara  uttered 
a  low  cry  and  fell  upon  her  face  at  his  feet. 

"You  have  heard,"  said  Rieseneck  to  his  brother.  "It  is 
time." 

Greifenstein  turned.  He  saw  the  tall  old  man's  great  figure 
standing  flat  against  the  opposite  wall,  and  he  saw  the  ghastly 
face,  half  hidden  by  the  snowy  beard.  He  glanced  down,  and 
beheld  a  mass  of  straw-coloured  silk,  crumpled  and  disordered, 
and  just  beyond  it  a  coil  of  faded  hair  adorned  with  jewelled 
pins  that  reflected  the  soft  light.  He  crossed  the  room,  and  his 
features  were  ashy  pale,  firmly  set  and  utterly  relentless.  He 
had  heard  her  condemnation  from  her  own  lips,  he  thought  of 
his  son,  nameless  through  this  woman's  crime,  and  his  heart 
was  hardened. 

"  It  is  time,"  he  said.     "  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  ?  " 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  but  none  came.  Clara's  hour  had 
struck  and  she  knew  it.  There  was  deep  silence  in  the  room. 
Then  the  stillness  was  broken  by  a  gasp  for  breath  and  by  a  little 
rustling  of  the  delicate  silk.  That  was  all. 

When  it  was  done,  the  two  brothers  stooped  down  again  and 
lifted  their  burden  and  bore  it  silently  away,  till  they  reached 
the  room  in  which  they  had  first  met.  Then  Greifenstein 
made  sign  that  they  should  go  further  and  they  entered  the 
chamber  beyond,  and  upon  the  bed  that  was  there,  they  laid 
down  the  dead  woman,  and  covered  her  poor  painted  face 
decently  with  a  sheet  and  went  away,  closing  the  door  softly 
behind  them. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  looking  at  each  other  earnestly. 
Then  Rieseneck  took  from  his  pocket  his  brother's  gift  and  laid 
it  upon  the  table. 

"  It  is  time  for  us  also,"  he  said. 

"  Yes.     I  must  write  to  Greif  first." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  short  and  terrible  tragedy  was  com 
pleted,  and  of  the  three  persons  who  had  sat  together  at  the  table, 
suffering  each  in  his  or  her  own  way  as  much  as  each  could  bear, 
not  one  was  left  alive  to  tell  the  tale. 

Outside  the  house  of  death,  the  silent,  spotless  snow  gleamed 
in  the  light  of  the  waning  moon.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  sighed 
amongst  the  stately  black  trees.  Only,  far  below,  the  tumbling 
torrent  roared  through  its  half-frozen  bed,  and  high  above, 
from  the  summit  of  the  battlement  that  had  sheltered  so  many 


150  GREIFENSTEIN. 

generations  of  Greifensteins  from  danger  in  war,  and  in  peace 
from  the  bitter  north  wind,  the  great  horned  owls  sent  forth 
their  melancholy  note,  from  time  to  time,  and  opened  wide  their 
cruel  hungry  eyes,  as  the  dismal  sound  echoed  away  among  the 
dark  firs. 

Then  all  was  confusion  in  an  instant,  within  and  without. 
Lights  flashed  out  over  the  snow  from  the  deep,  low  gateway, 
voices  rang  in  accents  of  alarm  through  the  halls  and  spacious 
corridors,  huge  watch-dogs  sprang  to  the  length  of  their  rattling- 
chains  and  bellowed  out  their  deep-mouthed  cries,  the  shrieks  of 
frightened  women  rose  high  above  the  noise  and  were  drowned 
again  by  the  loud  bass  voices  of  excited  serving-men.  Then  there 
was  the  clatter  of  iron  shoes  upon  the  stone  pavements  as  the 
startled  horses  were  led  out  into  the  moonlight  from  their  warm 
dark  stalls,  the  tinkle  of  curb  chains,  the  wheeze  of  tightening 
leather  girths,  the  clicking  of  curb  and  snaffle  between  champing 
teeth,  the  purselike  chink  of  spurs  on  booted  heels,  the  soft  dull 
thud  of  riders  springing  into  saddles.  The  iron-studded  gates 
creaked  back  upon  their  huge  hinges,  as  the  burly  porter,  pale 
with  fear,  dragged  open  the  heavy  oak  panels.  Lanterns  flashed, 
stable-boys  and  house  servants  elbowed  each  other  in  the  narrow 
way  and  flattened  themselves  against  the  damp  stone  walls,  as 
they  heard  the  tramp  of  the  approaching  feet.  Then  four  strong 
horses  trotted  out,  two  and  two,  into  the  moonlight  beyond,  each 
bearing  on  his  back  a  messenger  of  the  terrible  tidings,  and  all 
breaking  into  a  brisk  gallop  as  the  party  disappeared  in  the 
mottled  black  and  white  distance  under  the  mighty  trees.  One 
rode  for  Sigmundskron,  and  one  for  the  nearest  surgeon,  one 
for  the  distant  town,  and  one  to  bear  the  ghastly  tale  to  Greif 
himself,  the  nameless  orphan,  who  at  that  moment  was  march 
ing  sword  in  hand  beside  the  tall  standard  of  his  Korps,  at  the 
head  of  a  thousand  students,  in  all  the  magnificence  of  his  fan 
tastic  dress,  leading  the  great  torchlight  procession  which  closed 
the  academic  year,  and  which  crowned  with  a  splendid  revelry 
the  last  act  of  his  student  life.  As  he  strode  along,  proud,  suc 
cessful,  popular,  the  envy  of  all  his  fellows,  the  idol  of  his  Korps 
companions,  pale-faced  servants  were  laying  the  body  of  his  father 
beside  his  dead  mother  in  the  state  chamber  of  Greifenstein, 
and  frightened  menials  were  trembling  under  the  weight  of  the 
tall  dead  man  whose  snowy  beard  blew  about  in  such  fantastic 
waves  before  the  draught  of  every  opened  door.  As  he  went  up 


GREIFEN  STEIN.  151 

the  steps  of  the  festal  drinking-hall  wherein  the  last  students' 
feast  of  the  year  was  to  be  celebrated,  and  over  which  he  him 
self  was  to  preside,  three  women  were  met  together  in  distant 
Sigmundskron,  repeating  the  service  for  the  dead,  before  the 
smouldering  embers  of  their  poor  fire,  by  the  dim  light  of  their 
one  smoking  candle.  An  hour  later,  as  the  orchestra  thundered 
out  the  strains  of  the  soul-stirring  Landesvater,  sustaining  but 
not  covering  the  glorious  chorus  of  a  thousand  fresh  young 
voices,  a  grey-haired  woman  in  a  dark  cloak  was  riding  slowly 
through  the  snowy  ways  of  the  dismal  forest,  her  horse  led 
carefully  by  the  booted  groom  who  had  brought  the  news.  Her 
face  was  paler  than  ever  it  was  wont  to  be,  but  not  less  brave. 
Her  well-worn  mantle  was  no  fit  covering  against  the  bitter 
Christmas  air,  but  her  heart  was  not  cold  within.  She  knew 
that  Greif  would  come  in  the  morning,  or  at  noontime,  and 
cost  what  it  might,  she  would  not  let  him  face  his  awful  sorrow 
alone,  or  feel  that  none  but  a  hired  hand  had  smoothed  his 
dead  mother's  faded  hair,  or  closed  his  dead  father's  staring 
eyes.  She  did  what  she  could.  She  sat  as  she  might  upon  the 
man's  saddle,  and  she  faced  the  cruel  cold  unflinchingly,  encour 
aging  the  fellowr  who  led  her  horse  with  such  words  and  prom 
ises  as  she  was  able  to  devise. 

But  the  distance  was  great,  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  stout 
Mecklenburger  roan  had  breasted  the  steep  road  at  a  gallop  only 
an  hour  before.  The  castle  clock  was  striking  half-past  four 
when  the  strong-hearted  Lady  of  Sigmundskron  was  lifted  from 
her  seat  to  the  pavement  within  the  walls  of  Greifenstein, 
half  dead  with  cold,  and  horrified  at  the  thought  of  what  she 
had  come  to  see,  but  calm,  determined  and  full  of  dignity  as 
only  women,  and  such  women,  can  be,  in  the  presence  of  a  hor 
rible  catastrophe.  She  took  what  they  offered  her,  a  glass  of 
strong  wine  and  a  slice  of  venison,  scarcely  cold  from  the  ghastly 
meal  that  had  preceded  the  tragedy.  She  did  not  suffer  herself 
to  think  whence  it  came,  for  she  needed  strength,  not  only  to  do 
her  duty,  but  to  impose  order  and  quiet  in  the  terrified  house 
hold.  Then  she  listened  to  the  story  and  visited  the  rooms. 
There  were  policemen  in  the  house,  quiet  men  in  dark  uniforms 
with  great  yellow  beards  and  grave  faces,  and  there  was  the 
surgeon,  an  insignificant  country  leech  in  spectacles,  who  would 
have  been  pompous  anywhere  else  and  at  any  other  time,  but 
who  looked  singularly  helpless  and  subdued.  Other  officials 


152  GREIFENSTEIN. 

would  doubtless  come  in  the  course  of  the  early  morning,  to 
report  upon  what  had  happened,  but  now  that  there  was  a 
responsible  person  present,  a  relation  of  the  dead  and  one  in 
authority,  no  great  difficulty  could  arise.  One  thing  only  Frau 
von  Sigmundskron  had  not  understood,  and  that  involved  the 
understanding  of  all  the  rest.  She  did  not  know  who  the 
stranger  was,  whose  coming  seemed  to  have  led  to  the  final 
catastrophe.  She  guessed  indeed  that  he  must  be  Rieseneck, 
but  there  was  no  evidence  of  his  identity.  It  was  not  until  she 
had  been  three  hours  in  the  house  that  she  extracted  from  one 
of  the  servants  an  account  of  what  had  occurred  before  the 
three  had  so  suddenly  left  the  dinner-table.  The  man  remem 
bered  having  been  told  that  the  visitor  was  Ilerr  Brandt,  but 
his  mistress,  when  he  was  waiting  at  the  guest's  side  had  cer 
tainly  called  him  by  another  name.  It  was  "  von  Riesen  "  — 
and  something  more.  The  servant  was  sure  of  that,  and  the 
baroness  was  satisfied.  She  did  not  care  to  tell  him  what  the 
name  really  was,  for  she  began  to  see  dimly  that  the  triple 
murder  and  suicide  were  in  some  way  the  result  of  the  exile's 
coming.  Nothing  had  been  found,  not  a  scrap  of  writing  to 
give  an  explanation,  not  a  sign  to  indicate  a  clue.  The  sur 
geon's  evidence  was  simple.  The  lady  had  been  strangled, 
the  two  gentlemen  had  shot  themselves.  Nothing  showed  that 
there  had  been  any  struggle.  Greifenstein  and  his  guest  had 
been  found  in  two  chairs,  each  having  in  his  hand  a  revolver  of 
which  one  chamber  was  empty.  The  position  of  the  wounds 
showed  that  they  had  not  fired  upon  each  other.  While  the 
cause  of  their  action  was  a  total  mystery  to  every  one  except  Frau 
von  Sigmundskron,  the  steps  of  it  were  singularly  clear.  It  was 
evident  that  they  had  killed  Clara  deliberately  and  had  then 
killed  themselves.  Even  the  baroness  was  obliged  to  admit  to 
herself  that  the  mere  fact  of  the  exile  returning  suddenly  was 
wholly  inadequate  to  account  for  the  three  deaths. 

She  was  a  brave  woman,  and  though  she  was  profoundly  hor 
rified  and  grieved  by  what  had  happened  she  was  conscious  that 
she  had  not  suffered  any  great  personal  loss.  She  had  never 
known  Rieseneck,  she  had  never  liked  Clara,  and  her  friendship 
for  Greifenstein  had  not  been  great.  Greif  himself  was  safe, 
the  only  one  of  the  family  for  whom  she  felt  any  affection,  and 
in  whom  all  her  hopes  for  her  daughter's  happiness  were  cen 
tred.  But  for  him,  she  would  have  refused  the  occasional  hos- 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  153 

pitality  of  the  castle  as  she  had  once  refused  the  tardy  assistance 
of  its  possessors.  It  is  due  to  the  memory  of  Greifenstein  to 
repeat  here  that  he  never  at  any  time  realised  the  extremity  of 
her  need,  and  that  it  had  been  long  before  he  had  learned  that 
she  was  really  poor.  But  the  Lady  of  Sigmundskron  did  not 
know  this,  and  she  could  not  comprehend  how  completely  her 
penury  had  been  hidden  from  her  relations  by  her  own  won 
derful  management  and  indomitable  pride.  At  present,  her 
thoughts  were  absorbed  by  the  necessity  of  meeting  Greif  when 
he  arrived,  which  must  be  within  a  few  hours,  and  she  sat 
calmly  in  her  chair  under  the  light  of  the  candles  that  illumi 
nated  the  chamber  of  death,  trying  vainly  to  frame  some  con 
soling  speech  which  might  break  the  violence  of  his  sorrow. 
She  knew  how  he  had  loved  his  father,  and  during  his  last 
visit  she  had  noticed  his  increasing  affection  for  his  mother. 
She  knew  that  he  was  aware  of  Rieseneck's  existence,  and  she 
tortured  her  weary  brain  in  the  attempt  to  find  some  explana 
tion  that  would  not  pain  him  needlessly,  and  which  might 
nevertheless  seem  to  account  in  some  measure  for  the  calamity 
that  had  overtaken  him.  But  her  trouble  was  thrown  away, 
and  many  a  cunning  lawyer  might  have  laboured  in  vain  to 
frame  out  of  the  facts  a  consistent  narrative.  As  the  morning 
approached,  the  intensity  of  her  thoughts  was  diminished  by 
her  bodily  fatigue,  and  she  dreamed  of  other  things,  wondering 
somewhat  vaguely  whether  it  were  right  to  marry  her  child  to 
the  son  of  the  murderer  and  suicide  whose  dead  body  lay  beside 
that  of  his  victim  under  the  yellow  light  of  the  tall  candles,  to 
the  nephew  of  the  traitor,  whose  tall  figure  was  stretched  upon 
a  couch  in  the  room  beyond. 

To  most  women  the  situation  would  have  been  infinitely  more 
painful  than  it  was  to  Therese  von  Sigmundskron.  She  was 
more  like  a  sister  of  a  religious  order  than  a  woman  of  the 
world.  Years  of  ascetic  practices,  of  constant  self-sacrifice,  of 
unswerving  devotion  had  refined  her  nature  from  the  fear  of 
death,  or  the  dread  of  its  presence.  We  ask  in  vain  why  an 
existence  of  painful  labour  elevates  some  characters  and  debases 
others,  inspires  courage  in  some  and  in  some  destroys  the  power 
to  face  the  inevitable.  We  search  our  experience  and  we  know 
that  the  fact  exists,  we  apply  our  intelligence  to  the  study  of  it 
and  we  admit  that  the  cause  of  the  fact  escapes  us.  The  seekers 
after  explanations  are  bold  with  big  words  which  tell  us  nothing, 


154  GREIFENSTEIN. 

and  call  themselves  physiological  psychologists,  or  if  that  defini 
tion  fails  they  say  that  they  are  psychological  physiologists,  and 
establish  a  difference  in  meaning  between  the  one  title  and  the 
other.  But  all  the  Greek  words  they  can  spell  with  Latin  letters 
cannot  show  us  what  the  human  heart  is,  nor  make  us  believe 
that  it  is  seated  in  the  right  or  in  the  left  side  of  the  brain,  nor 
yet  that  it  is  established  in  the  middle,  in  the  island  of  lleil ; 
any  more  than  we  admit  that  the  human  heart  has  anything  to 
.do  with  the  little  muscle-pump  we  carry  in  our  breasts  and  which 
sometimes  stops  pumping  just  at  the  wrong  moment  for  our 
convenience. 

"  Life  is  a  continuous  adjustment  of  internal  relations  to 
external  relations,"  says  the  Apostle  of  the  Misunderstanding. 
"  Adjustment "  is  good,  for  it  means  nothing.  It  would  have 
shown  better  taste,  however,  to  substitute  for  it  a  beautiful 
term  of  some  sort,  with  a  Greek  root,  a  Latin  suffix  and  an 
English  termination,  because  in  that  case  a  large  majority  of 
people  would  never  have  found  out  that  the  whole  phrase  was 
blatant  nonsense.  What  are  internal  relations?  Did  the  chief 
destroyer  of  common  sense,  the  chief  executioner  of  good 
English,  mean,  perhaps,  the  relations  between  that  which  is 
within  and  that  which  is  without  ?  He  might  have  said  so. 
It  would  not  have  meant  much,  but  it  would  undoubtedly  have 
meant  something.  And  if  life  is  this,  then  death  must  be  the 
opposite,  and  death  becomes  "  a  cessation  of  the  adjustment  of 
internal  relations  to  external  relations,"  and  if  that  is  what  it 
means  we  ought  to  say  so  when  a  man  is  dead,  although  nature 
continues  to  adjust  the  internal  and  the  external  relations 
afterwards  in  a  way  we  do  not  care  to  see. 

Fortunately  for  Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  she  had  not  read 
the  works  of  the  Apostle  of  the  Misunderstanding,  and  was 
consequently  able  to  bear  her  situation  with  some  degree  of 
equanimity.  But  it  was  a  hard  one  for  all  that,  and  she  could 
not  help  making  some  very  ignorant  but  sincere  reflections 
upon  that  state  we  call  life,  and  upon  that  other  state  which  is 
so  near  to  it.  What  her  thoughts  would  have  been  like  had 
she  known  all  that  had  happened,  it  is  not  easy  to  say.  If  she 
had  known  that  she  was  entitled  by  the  laws  of  her  country  to 
Greifenstein  and  to  all  that  belonged  to  the  name,  as  the  only 
living  and  legitimate  heir,  she  would  certainly  have  looked  at 
the  future  in  another  way.  But  she  had  no  reason  for  thinking 


GREIFENSTEIN.  155 

that  all  was  not  Greif's.  So  far  as  she  knew,  she  was  still  the 
poor  widowed  gentlewoman  she  had  been  twelve  hours  earlier, 
struggling  against  poverty,  starving  herself  for  her  daughter, 
looking  to  herself  for  courage  and  support,  and  to  her  child's 
well  being  as  the  only  source  of  her  own  happiness.  The  same 
in  all  respects  save  one,  and  that  one  change  brought  with  it 
many  bitter  doubts.  So  long  as  Greifenstein  and  Clara  had 
been  alive,  Hilda's  marriage  with  Greif  had  seemed  right  in 
her  eyes.  She  regretted  Rieseneck's  disgrace,  as  a  family  disas 
ter,  but  her  conscience  was  not  so  sensitive  as  to  look  at  it  in 
the  light  of  an  obstacle  to  the  union. 

Now,  however,  there  was  that  before  her  —  there  upon  the 
bed  of  state  in  the  glare  of  the  lights  —  which  changed  every 
thing  very  much.  Between  Greif  and  Hilda  lay  Greif's  mur 
dered  mother,  and  Greif's  father  dead  by  his  own  hand. 
Therese  von  Sigmundskron  was  a  Greifenstein  at  heart,  and 
she  would  rather  face  misery  and  starvation  than  give  her  child 
to  one  whose  name  must  for  ever  be  branded  with  such  a  story. 
Very  soon  she  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible,  and  the  prospect 
of  so  much  suffering  for  Hilda  appalled  her.  She  thought  of 
Greif,  too,  and  she  was  profoundly  grieved  for  him,  for  she  had 
already  looked  upon  him  as  her  son.  Of  course,  for  the  present, 
there  could  be  no  talking  of  the  matter.  If  the  poor  fellow  did 
not  go  mad  with  sorrow,  he  would  nevertheless  wish  to  put  off 
his  marriage  for  a  year  or  more.  She  thought  of  Hilda's  dis 
appointment  at  the  prospect  of  even  retarding  the  happy  day, 
she  thought  of  the  girl's  despair  when  she  should  know  that  the 
day  could  never  come. 

Then  her  resolution  almost  broke  down,  and  she  even  argued 
with  herself  against  it.  Greif  was  innocent.  It  was  no  fault 
of  his,  he  had  no  share  in  the  fearful  doings  of  last  night,  he 
was  far  away,  thinking  of  Hilda,  dreaming  that  he  led  her  up 
the  aisle  of  the  church,  counting  the  moments  until  he  could 
come  back  to  her.  Why  should  he  suffer  the  consequences  of 
what  others  had  done?  Why  should  Hilda's  young  life  be 
wrecked,  condemned,  perhaps,  to  perpetual  poverty,  ruined, 
most  assuredly,  by  the  overthrow  of  its  only  happiness  ?  Could 
they  not  marry  and  live  here,  as  Greif's  father -and  mother  had 
lived  for  years  ?  Could  they  not  be  everything  to  each  other, 
and  nothing  to  the  world  ? 

Why  had   Greifenstein   and  Rieseneck  killed   Clara?    The 


156  GREIFENSTBIN. 

question  cut  short  the  good  baroness's  attempt  to  justify  the 
marriage.  It  rose  suddenly  in  her  mind  and  covered  every 
other  thought  with  a  veil.  Since  that  day  when  poor  Clara 
had  behaved  so  strangely  on  hearing  of  the  amnesty,  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron  had  always  believed  that  she  knew  more  of 
Rieseneck  than  any  one  else  supposed.  Rieseneck  had  come, 
and  he  had  not  been  in  the  house  three  hours  when  everything 
was  over.  What  had  happened  V  No  one  knew.  Those  who 
had  known  had  acted  out  their  own  tragedy  to  the  end  and 
were  gone  with  their  secret.  The  authorities  had  already  taken 
cognisance  of  their  deaths  and  had  drawn  up  their  preliminary 
report.  The  three  would  be  buried,  perhaps  side  by  side,  in 
the  vault  of  the  Greifensteins,  and  no  living  person  could  ever' 
know  what  had  passed  during  their  last  moments.  The  most 
careful  search  had  brought  no  trace  of  writing  to  the  light, 
excepting  a  letter  addressed  to  an  unknown  person,  evidently 
written  before  the  catastrophe,  which  had  been  found,  directed 
and  stamped  for  the  post,  upon  the  library  table.  Everything 
in  the  house  had  been  found  in  order,  every  object  in  its  place. 
The  servants  had  heard  the  twro  shots  and  had  tried  to  enter 
the  room,  but  it  had  been  locked  within.  A  lad  had  climbed 
along  the  cornice  until  he  could  see  through  the  window,  and 
had  come  back  pale  with  terror.  In  the  presence  of  the  whole 
household  the  door  had  been  forced,  and  all  had  seen  together 
the  hideous  sight.  That  was  all  there  was  to  be  known. 

As  the  castle  clock  struck  one  hour  after  another,  the  baroness 
felt  that  every  minute  was  carrying  the  secret  further  beyond 
her  reach,  and  yet,  as  the  time  passed,  the  effect  of  that  secret's 
existence  upon  her  own  mind  grew  more  and  more  clear  to  her 
self.  She  could  never  give  Hilda  to  Greif.  She  could  never 
suffer  her  child  to  mate  with  a  man  whose  existence  was  over 
shadowed  by  such  a  history,  innocent  though  he  assuredly  was 
himself. 

And  yet  Greif  wras  coming,  and  she  had  ridden  all  those 
weary  miles  through  the  freezing  night  in  order  to  meet  him 
at  his  own  gate,  in  order  to  comfort  him,  to  give  him  the  help 
of  her  presence,  the  consolation  of  a  friend  in  his  utmost  need. 
Would  it  console  him  to  know  that  he  must  lose  the  only  sur 
viving  thing  that  was  dear  to  him,  the  hope  of  Hilda?  Her 
heart  beat  at  the  thought  of  the  pain  he  would  suffer,  though 
it  had  been  calm  enough  in  the  sight  of  the  great  horror. 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  157 

But  she  could  not  yield  the  point.  In  spite  of  her  gentle  face 
she  had  all  the  unbending  qualities  of  her  masterful  country 
men,  as  well  as  all  the  pride  of  the  Greifensteins.  She  could 
not  yield,  let  the  resistance  cost  what  it  might. 

The  late  winter's  dawn  stole  through  the  crevices  of  the 
windows,  which  had  been  opened  more  than  once  during  the 
night.  The  contrast  of  the  still  grey  rays,  seen  through 
the  flickering  light  of  the  candles  that  filled  the  place  of  death, 
was  terribly  unpleasant.  The  baroness  rose  and  fastened  the 
shutters  carefully.  As  she  turned  back  she  shuddered  for  the 
first  time  since  she  had  come.  The  slight  exertion  had  stirred 
her  tired  blood  and  had  made-  her  momentarily  nervous.  The 
room  looked  very  naturally.  The  huge  carved  bed  of  state 
with  its  enormous  canopy  was  where  she  had  always  seen  it 
when  she  had  visited  the  house.  The  massive  furniture  was 
arranged  as  usual,  saving  that  there  were  high  pedestals  placed 
about  the  bed  to  support  the  heavy  candlesticks.  Nothing  else 
was  changed.  But  upon  the  bed  lay  two  straight  things,  side 
by  side,  covered  all  over  with  fine  linen.  The  great  secret  of 
death  was  there,  and  death  had  taken  with  him  the  key-word 
of  a  strange  mystery. 


158  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

REX  sat  in  a  careless  attitude  in  a  comer  of  Greif's  small 
room,  watching  his  friend  as  he  arrayed  himself  in  the  official 
dress  of  a  Korps  student  for  the  coming  festivity.  It  was  to  be 
Greif's  last  appearance  in  public  as  a  fellow.  To-morrow  there 
would  be  a  meeting  of  the  Korps  and  he  would  resign  his  func 
tions,  and  some  one  else  would  be  elected  in  his  stead.  Rex 
watched  him  curiously  and  hummed  the  first  stanza  of  the 
"Gaudeamus"- 

"  Give  our  hearts  to  gladness,  then, 
While  the  young  life  flashes! 
When  our  joyous  youth  is  gone, 
When  old  age's  aches  are  done, 
Earth  shall  have  our  ashes  !  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  sing  that  song  !  "  exclaimed  Greif,  a 
little  impatiently.  "  There  will  be  time  enough  to  exercise  your 
voice  upon  it  when  we  begin  to  throw  away  the  torches." 

"  It  is  the  only  song  I  ever  heard  that  has  any  truth  in  it," 
answered  Rex. 

"  You  ought  to  write  one  about  the  vortex,  and  call  it  the 
physicist's  Lament,"  laughed  the  other. 

"  The  idea  is  not  new.  Scheffel  made  geological  jokes  in 
verse  and  sang  them." 

"  Go  thou  and  do  likewise !  But  do  not  make  the  idea  of 
turning  into  a  philistine  more  unpleasant  than  it  naturally  is." 

"  We  have  all  been  through  it,"  said  Rex,  "  and  most  of  us 
have  survived  the  change.  With  insects,  the  caterpillar  turns 
into  the  pretty  moth.  With  Korps  students,  the  butterfly 
becomes  sooner  or  later  a  crawling,  philistine  grub.  The  moral 
superiority  of  the  worm  over  the  moth  is  manifest  in  his  works. 
Have  you  read  your  speech  over  ?  " 

"  I  know  it  by  heart.     Help  me  with  the  scarf,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Vanity  of  vanities  !  "  laughed  Rex  as  he  began  to  knot  the 
coloured  silk. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  159 

Greif's  costume  is  worth  a  word  of  description.  He  wore  a 
close-fitting  yellow  jacket,  heavily  trimmed  with  black,  white 
and  yellow  frogs  and  crossed  cords,  in  the  hussar  fashion,  and 
finished  at  the  neck  in  the  military  manner  with  a  stiff  high 
collar.  His  legs  were  encased  in  tight  breeches  of  white  leather, 
and  long  polished  boots  with  riding  flaps  were  drawn  above  the 
knee.  The  long  straight  rapier  hung  in  its  gleaming  sheath  by 
his  side,  the  colours  of  the  Korps  being  done  in  velvet  upon  the 
basket-hilt.  Over  his  right  shoulder  he  wore  a  heavy  silk  scarf 
of  the  three  colours,  which  was  tied  in  a  big  knot  near  the  sword- 
hilt.  Upon  his  bright  hair  a  very  small  round  cap,  no  bigger 
than  a  saucer,  and  richly  embroidered  with  gold,  was  held  in  its 
place  by  mysterious  means,  involving  the  concealment  of  a  piece 
of  elastic  beneath  his  short  curls.  Upon  the  table  lay  a  pair  of 
white  leather  gauntlets.  The  whole  effect  was  theatrical,  but 
in  the  surroundings  for  which  the  dress  was  intended,  it  could 
not  fail  to  be  both  striking  and  harmonious.  It  displayed  to 
the  best  advantage  the  young  man's  fine  proportions  and  athletic 
figure,  and  where  there  were  to  be  hundreds  similarly  arrayed, 
with  only  a  difference  of  colour  to  distinguish  their  even  ranks, 
the  result  could  not  differ  greatly  from  a  military  parade.  In 
deed  the  costume  is  not  more  gaudy  than  many  modern  uniforms 
and  is  certainly  as  tasteful. 

"  I  am  sorry  it  is  the  last  time,"  said  Greif  sadly,  as  his  friend 
finished  the  knot.  Then  he  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
once  more  at  the  dim  outline  of  the  cathedral  spire  and  listened 
to  the  water  rushing  through  its  cold  bed  in  the  dusk  far  below. 
He  knew  that  he  should  look  out  but  a  few  times  more.  He  did 
not  know  that  this  time  was  the  last.  Rex  was  looking  for  his 
overcoat,  and  as  he  moved  about  the  room  he  sang  softly  another 
stanza  of  the  old  song  — 

"  Short  and  sweet  this  life  of  ours, 
Soon  its  cord  must  sever ! 
Death  comes  quick,  nor  brooks  delay, 
Euthless,  he  tears  us  away, 
No  man  spares  he  ever." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  do  not  sing  that  song  any  more  !  "  cried 
Greif.  "  I  am  sad  enough,  as  it  is,  without  your  cat's  music." 

Rex  laughed  oddly. 

"  I  am  as  sad  as  you,"  he  said,  a  moment  later,  with  an  abrupt 
change  of  manner. 


160  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

"You  do  not  act  as  though  you  were,"  observed  Greif. 
"  What  are  you  sad  about  ?  " 

"  World-sorrow." 

"  Has  tlie  vortex  fallen  ill  ?  "  inquired  Greif  ironically. 

"It  is  likely  to,  I  fear.  Come  along!  It  is  time  to  be  off. 
You  must  not  keep  everybody  waiting." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  struck  Greif  and  affected 
him  disagreeably.  He  held  up  the  light  to  Rex's  face,  and  saw 
that  he  was  pale,  and  that  his  strange  eyes  looked  weary  and 
lifeless. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Rex?"  he  asked  earnestly.  "  Are  you 
in  any  trouble  ?  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,"  answered  the  other  quietly. 

Greif  set  down  the  lamp  upon  the  table  and  seemed  to  hesi 
tate  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  again  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  friend's  arm. 

"  Rex,  do  you  want  money  ?  "  asked  Greif.  "  You  know  I 
have  plenty." 

In  the  eyes  of  a  Korps  student  the  want  of  cash  appears  to 
be  the  only  ill  to  which  flesh  is  heir.  Rex  smiled  rather  sadly. 

"  No,  I  do  not  want  money.     I  thank  you,  all  the  same." 

"  What  is  it  then  ?     In  love  ?  " 

"  In  love ! "  Rex  laughed.  "  I  would  tell  you  that  soon 
enough,"  he  added  carelessly.  "No  —  it  is  a  more  serious 
matter." 

"  If  I  can  be  of  no  use  to  you  —  " 

"  Look  here,  Greif,"  interrupted  the  other,  "  we  have  grown 
to  be  good  friends,  you  and  I,  during  this  term.  You  are 
going  away,  and  I  may  never  see  you  again.  You  may  as  well 
know  why  I  fraternised  with  you  so  readily.  I  have  had  your 
friendship  so  far,  and  if  I  must  lose  it,  I  may  as  well  lose  it  at 
once." 

Greif  opened  his  bright  eyes  and  stared  at  his  friend  in  con 
siderable  astonishment.  He  thought  that  he  knew  him  well, 
and  he  could  not  imagine  what  was  coming. 

"  I  do  not  see  what  could  happen  to  cause  that,"  he  answered. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  evening  when  you  first  came  to  my 
rooms  ?  " 

"Of  course." 

"  Have    I    gained   any   advantage   from    our    acquaintance, 


GREIFEiSTSTEIN.  161 

excepting  your  society  and  that  of  your  Korps?  Think  well 
before  you  answer." 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  Greif.  "I  am  quite  sure  that  you 
have  not.  What  a  foolish  question !  " 

"  It  seems  so  to  you,  no  doubt.  But  it  is  far  from  foolish. 
You  say  that  you  remember  that  evening  well.  Then  you 
recollect  that  I  told  you  I  knew  nothing  of  you  or  your  family. 
I  made  certain  predictions.  Well,  I  made  them  according  to 
the  figure,  as  you  saw  by  the  unexpected  arrival  of  that  tele 
gram.  But  I  lied  to  you  about  the  rest.  I  knew  perfectly  well 
who  you  were,  whence  you  came,  and  what  your  father's  half- 
brother  had  done." 

Greif  had  drawn  back  a  little  during  the  first  part  of  this 
declaration.  At  the  statement  that  Rex  had  deceived  him  he 
started  and  drew  himself  up,  his  face  showing  plainly  enough 
that  his  wrath  was  not  far  off. 

"  And  may  I  ask  your  reasons  for  practising  this  deception 
upon  me  ?  "  he  inquired  coldly. 

"  There  is  but  one  reason,  and  that  is  of  a  somewhat  startling 
nature,"  returned  Rex,  leaning  back  against  the  table  and 
resting  his  two  hands  upon  it.  "  You  allow  that  I  have  got  no 
personal  advantage  out  of  your  friendship.  I  desired  none. 
I  only  wanted  to  know  you." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  your  cousin.  My  name  is  Rieseneck.  I  am 
the  only  son  of  your  father's  half-brother." 

Greif's  eyes  flashed,  and  the  hot  blood  mounted  to  his  face. 
The  information  was  surprising  enough,  and  his  hatred  of  his 
uncle  was  likely  to  produce  trouble. 

"  How  did  you  dare  to  impose  upon  me  in  such  a  way  ?  "  he 
cried  angrily. 

"  No  one  ever  speaks  to  me  of  daring,"  answered  Rex,  who 
seemed  quite  unmoved.  "  I  dare  do  most  things,  because  I 
have  nothing  to  lose  but  a  little  money,  my  good  name  of  Rex, 
and  my  life.  As  for  my  not  calling  myself  Rieseneck,  I  have 
not  imposed  upon  you  any  more  than  upon  any  one  else,  by 
doing  so.  My  father  calls  himself  Rex,  and  I  have  never  been 
known  by  any  other  appellation." 

"  But  you  should  have  told  me  —  " 

"  Doubtless,  and  so  I  have.     It  is  true  that  I  have  chosen  my 


162  GREIFENSTEIN. 

own  time,  and  that  I  have  allowed  myself  the  pleasure  of  know 
ing  you  before  disclosing  my  identity.  You  would  have  refused 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  me  had  you  known  who  I  was. 
After  all,  you  are  the  only  relation  I  have  in  the  world,  and  I 
have  asked  you  for  nothing,  nor  ever  shall.  I  learned  that  you 
were  a  student  here,  and  I  came  to  Schwavzburg  expressly 
to  meet  you.  I  noted  your  usual  seat  at  the  lecture  where  we 
met,  and  I  put  myself  next  to  you  with  the  intention  of  making 
your  acquaintance.  Now  I  have  told  you  everything.  You  are 
at  liberty  to  know  me  or  not,  henceforth.  You  prefer  not  to 
know  me.  Ts  it  so?  Well,  I  have  done  you  no  injury.  Good 
bye.  I  wish  you  good  luck." 

Thereupon  Rex  took  up  his  hat  and  with  a  slight  inclination 
of  the  head  went  towards  the  door.  His  stony  eyes  did  not 
turn  to  Greif,  who  might  have  seen  in  them  a  strangely  pained 
expression,  which  would  have  surprised  him.  Greif  hesitated 
between  his  sincere  friendship  for  Rex  and  his  horror  of  any 
one  so  closely  connected  with  Rieseneck.  It  was  very  hard  to 
choose  the  right  course  with  so  little  preparation,  and  he  was 
thrown  off  his  balance  by  the  sudden  disclosure.  But  his  natu 
ral  generosity,  combined  with  an  undefinable  attraction  he  felt 
towards  the  man,  overcame  all  other  considerations. 

"  Rex ! "  he  called  out,  as  his  friend  was  already  passing 
through  the  doorway. 

Rex  stopped  and  stood  still  where  he  was,  turning  his  head 
so  that  he  could  see  Greif. 

"  Stay,"  said  Greif  almost  involuntarily.  "  We  cannot  part 
company  in  this  way." 

"  If  it  must  be  at  all,  it  were  best  that  it  were  done  quickly," 
answered  Rex,  holding  the  handle  of  the  door. 

"  It  must  not  be  done,"  returned  Greif  in  a  decided  tone. 
"  If  I  am  attached  to  you,  it  is  for  what  you  are,  not  for  what 
your  father  was,  or  is." 

"  Think  the  matter  over,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  will  wait,  if 
you  please.  I  deceived  you  once.  It  is  fair  that  I  should 
submit  to  your  decision  now." 

He  closed  the  door  and  went  to  the  window,  where  he  stood 
still,  looking  out  into  the  dusk,  and  turning  his  back  upon 
Greif.  The  latter  paused  an  instant,  and  then  came  forward 
and  laid  one  hand  upon  his  friend's  shoulder.  He  acted  still 


GREIFENSTEIN.  163 

under  the  same  impulse  of  generosity  which  had  first  prompted 
him  to  keep  Rex  back. 

"  Rex  —  it  depends  upon  you.  If  you  will,  we  shall  be  friends 
as  ever." 

"  I  ?  "  exclaimed  Rex,  turning  suddenly.  "  With  all  my  heart. 
Is  there  anything  I  desire  more  ?  " 

"Good  —  so  be  it,  then!"  answered  Greif  taking  his  hand 
boldly. 

"So  be  it !  "  repeated  Rex. 

"And  now,"  said  Greif,  "why  did  you  choose  this  moment 
to  tell  me  your  secret  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  ?  There  is  a  reason  for  that,  too,  and 
not  a  pleasant  one." 

"I  can  hear  it." 

"  To-night  my  father  will  sleep  under  your  father's  house. 
You  will  hear  the  news  before  morning.  To-morrow  I  shall 
leave  here  to  meet  him  in  Switzerland  —  or  not,  as  the  case  may 
be.  He  has  been  refused  the  benefit  of  the  amnesty,  but  he 
will  be  allowed  to  leave  the  country  quietly.  I  cannot  leave 
him  alone  any  longer." 

Greif  turned  a  little  pale  at  the  intelligence. 

"  Then  this  is  the  danger  you  foretold,"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  What  will  happen  at  Greif enstein  to-night  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell !  "  exclaimed  Rex.  "  There  may  be  an  angry 
meeting.  There  may  be  worse.  Or  your  father's  heart  may  be 
softened  —  " 

"You  do  not  know  him.  Then  my  uncle  has  written  to 
you  ?  " 

"  I  received  the  letter  to-day,  before  coming  here.  Do  you  see 
that  it  was  better  to  have  this  explanation  now,  rather  than  to 
wait  for  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  it  was  better.  Let  us  go,  for  the  time  presses  —  truly 
I  have  no  heart  for  this  sport  to-night.  I  wish  I  were  at  home." 

"  Do  not  wish,"  said  Rex  gravely.  "  You  could  not  help 
matters." 

Greif  extinguished  the  light  and  the  two  men  groped  their 
way  down  the  dusky  staircase  in  silence,  both  feeling  that  an 
exceptionally  difficult  situation  had  been  passed  through  with 
singular  ease,  both  recognising  that  the  explanation  had  been 


164  GREIFENSTEIN. 

hurried  over  in  a  way  hardly  to  be  accounted  for,  except  by  the 
theory  that  neither  wished  to  lose  the  other's  friendship.  And 
yet,  both  Greif  and  Rex  knew  that  their  decision  had  been  final. 
The  one  had  nothing  more  to  conceal.  The  other  had  nothing 
left  to  forgive.  Rex,  like  Rieseneck  himself,  believed  that  his 
mother  had  died  long  ago.  Greif,  like  all  the  rest,  was  ignorant 
of  his  own  mother's  identity.  Sons  of  one  mother  they  went  out 
of  the  house  side  by  side,  not  dreaming  that  they  were  anything 
more  than  cousins,  whose  fathers  were  half-brothers,  little 
guessing  that  within  a  few  short  hours  the  father  of  each  and 
the  mother  of  both  would  be  lying  stiff  and  stark  in  the 
chambers  of  lofty  Greifenstein. 

They  reached  the  great  dark  buildings  of  the  University,  and 
found  themselves  in  a  dense  crowd  of  students  of  all  colours, 
on  the  outskirts  of  a  multitude  of  others  who  belonged  to  no 
associations.  Here  they  parted,  for  Rex  could  not  walk  in  the 
Swabian  Korps  and  must  go  with  the  black  hats. 

"We  shall  meet  in  the  hall,"  said  Greif  hurriedly.  "Your 
place  is  at  our  table  as  usual." 

And  so  they  parted.  In  a  few  moments,  Greif  had  found  his 
companions  by  the  tall  standard  whose  colours  caught  a  few 
struggling  rays  of  light  from  the  street-lamps.  Every  one  was 
talking,  smoking,  stamping  cold  feet  upon  the  stones  in  the 
effort  to  keep  warm,  cracking  jokes,  both  good  and  bad,  craning 
necks  to  see  the  position  of  the  standards,  making  agreements 
for  pairing  at  the  "  Landesvater,"  and  generally  complaining 
that  the  town  clocks  were  all  slow  that  night  in  Schwarzburg. 
Occasionally,  a  roar  of  laughter  arose  in  the  distance,  where 
some  unlucky  burgher  had  found  his  way  into  a  group  of 
students  and  was  being  made  the  butt  of  a  good-humoured  jest. 
And  beneath  the  high,  laughing  tones,  the  perpetual  hum  of  a 
thousand  talking  voices  neither  rose  nor  fell,  but  droned  unceas 
ingly  like  the  long  pedal  in  a  fugue,  whose  full  deep  note  stands 
still  amidst  the  strife  of  moving  sounds,  as  the  sun  stood  while 
the  battle  was  fought  out  in  Ajalon.  The  very  life  of  the  mul 
titude  seemed  to  produce  a  sound  of  its  own,  in  the  breathing 
of  a  thousand  pairs  of  strong  young  lungs,  in  the  beating  of  a 
thousand  young,  untired  hearts,  in  the  pulsation  of  so  much 
youth  brought  together  to  one  place.  A  blind  man  might  have 
thought  himself  in  the  presence  of  some  one  monstrous  human 
giant,  overflowing  with  enormous  vitality,  warming  the  whole 


GREIFENSTEIN.  165 

night  with  his  breath,  stirring  the  whole  air  with  each  careless 
movement  of  his  vast  body.  There  is  something  mysterious  in 
a  crowd,  most  of  all  in  a  crowd  at  night.  The  throng  has 
simultaneous  perceptions  and  movements,  a  joint  sense  of  power 
or  of  fear,  a  circulation  of  consciousness  as  complete  as  that 
which  exists  in  the  nerves  of  every  individual.  Thousands  of 
men,  of  whom  each  alone  would  act  differently  from  his  fellows, 
are  all  irresistibly  impelled  to  think  the  same  thoughts,  to  feel 
the  same  emotions,  to  yield  to  the  same  influences,  or  to  join  in 
the  same  work  of  destruction.  But  no  one  of  them  all  can  tell 
why  he  so  feels,  thinks  and  acts ;  the  mystery  of  the  crowd  is 
upon  him,  and  sways  him  whither  it  will,  powerless,  half  uncon 
scious,  and  wholly  irresponsible. 

The  deep  cathedral  bell  tolled  the  hour  of  seven.  Before  the 
strokes  were  all  counted,  the  hum  of  the  multitude  had  swelled 
to  twice  its  former  strength,  and  every  one  felt  himself  jostled 
a  little  by  his  neighbour.  Then  came  the  sharp,  clear  voices  of 
those  who  directed  the  forming  of  the  procession,  the  shuffling 
of  many  feet,  and  the  muffled  but  irritated  movements  of  those 
who  had  to  make  way.  Then  rose  a  sudden  flare  of  light  in  a 
corner  of  the  dark  mass,  followed  quickly  by  another  and  another, 
till  many  hundreds  of  torches  were  aflame,  sputtering,  smoking 
and  sending  up  tongues  of  flame  into  the  black  air.  Again  a 
word  of  command,  and  the  even  tramp  of  footsteps  began  to 
be  heard,  a  mere  patter  as  of  big  raindrops  upon  stones  at 
first,  but  swelling  gradually,  and  increasing,  till  the  sound 
roused  great  echoes  from  the  glowing  buildings,  while  the 
blazing  pitch  flared  up,  brighter  and  brighter,  into  a  broad  sea 
of  flame  that  flowed  away  in  a  narrow  stream  of  fire  as  the 
great  company  filed  out  of  the  square  into  the  street  beyond. 
Then,  as  the  place  of  meeting  was  emptied,  a  breeze  of  cold 
air  rushed  into  the  vacant  space;  there  was  hurrying  and 
scurrying  of  those  who  remained  last,  as  they  ran  to  take 
their  places,  and  while  a  burst  of  march  music  was  heard  in 
the  distance  at  the  head  of  the  column,  the  last  stragglers 
fell  into  the  file  behind,  the  last  torch  disappeared  into  the 
narrow  street,  and  the  broad  space  that  had  been  so  full  was 
left  utterly  deserted,  illuminated  only  by  a  dozen  dim  gas 
lights  in  exchange  for  the  lurid  glow  which  a  moment  earlier 
had  lit  up  every  wall  and  house  from  corner  stone  to  pointed 
gable. 


166  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

In  front  of  all,  marched  the  Swabians,  the  high  standard 
waving  in  front,  the  burly  second  of  the  Korps  striding  along 
upon  its  left  with  drawn  rapier  and  clattering  scabbard,  while 
upon  the  right  Greif  walked,  an  erect  and  commanding  figure, 
thrown  into  strong  relief  by  the  bright  lights  behind  him.  His 
face  was  pale,  and  his  teeth  were  set,  for  as  he  led  the  head  of 
the  column  he  found  time  to  reflect  upon  what  had  occurred 
during  the  last  hour,  and  time  to  fear  what  was  yet  to  happen. 
Willingly  he  would  have  left  the  rank  and  hastened  to  his  lodg 
ing  in  time  to  be  ready  for  the  night  train.  A  few  short  hours 
would  have  brought  him  to  his  home  to  learn  the  truth,  were  it 
good  or  evil.  But  the  thing  was  impossible.  He  was  of  all 
others  that  night  the  man  most  watched,  most  admired,  most 
envied.  It  was  his  last  torchlight  procession,  his  last  turn  of 
presiding  at  the  great  festival  that  was  at  hand,  the  last  draught 
of  that  brilliant  student's  life  he  loved  was  at  his  lips.  He 
could  never  again  do  what  he  was  doing  to-night.  To-rnorrow 
another  would  be  chosen  in  his  place,  and  to-morrow  he  was  to 
join  the  dull  ranks  of  the  outer  philistines.  The  thought 
brought  suddenly  a  flash  of  wild  recklessness  into  the  gloomy 
atmosphere  of  his  reflexions,  and  as  he  halted  the  column  before 
the  Rector's  house  and  started  the  ringing  cheer  for  the  "  Mag- 
nificus,"  his  voice  rang  out  with  a  metallic  clearness  that  sur 
prised  himself. 

"  Hoch  !  Hoch  !  Hoch  !  "  The  vast  chorus  that  followed  his 
lead  cheered  his  heart. 

What  could  Rieseneck  do  at  Greifenstein,  after  all  ?  There 
might  be  a  disagreeable  scene.  Two  of  them,  perhaps.  That 
would  be  all,  and  Rieseneck  would  go  away,  never  to  return 
again.  Rex  and  his  predictions?  Bah!  The  man  believed 
in  the  power  of  the  stars,  and  Greif,  who  trod  so  firmly  at  the 
head  of  a  thousand  torches,  believed  in  youth,  and  would  not 
forfeit  his  last  draught  of  glorious  youthfulness  for  any  such 
nonsense. 

On  and  on  the  procession  marched,  halting  in  the  street 
where  some  favourite  professor  lived,  in  order  to  give  him 
three  thundering  cheers,  then  tramping  on  to  another  and 
another,  down  the  high  street,  round  the  cathedral,  back  at  last 
to  the  square  whence  they  had  started. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  the  students  ranged  themselves  against 
the  walls  of  the  houses  in  serried  ranks,  drawing  back  as  much 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  167 

as  possible,  so  as  to  leave  a  broad  space  in  the  middle.  There 
was  a  pause,  and  a  deep  silence  for  several  minutes.  Then  the 
trumpets  and  horns  flared  out  the  grand  old  hymn  of  student 
life,  the  "  Gaudeamus  igitur,  juvenes  dum  sumus,"  and  all 
those  fresh  young  voices  took  up  the  strain  with  that  perfect 
unison  which  only  Germans  know  how  to  give  to  an  improvised 
chorus  — 

Gaudeamus   igitur,  juveues  dum  sumus,  post  jucundam  juventutem. 
post  molestam  senectutem,  uos  habebit  humus,  nos  habebit  humus. 

Ubi  sunt,  qui  ante  nos  in  mundo  fuere  ?    Vadite  ad  superos,  transite 
ad  inferos,  ubi  jam  fuere. 

Vita  nostra  brevis  est,  brevi  finietur,  venit  mors  velociter,  rapit  nos 
atrociter,  uemiui  parcetur. 

Vivant  omnes  virgines  faciles,  formosae,  vivant  et  mulieres,  vivant  et 
mulieres  bonae,  laboriosae. 

Vivat  academia,  vivant  professores,  vivat  membrum  quodlibet,  vivant 
membra  quaelibet,  semper  sint  in  flore. 

As  the  last  stanza  was  sung,  in  slow  and  solemn  measure,  the 
students  began  to  throw  away  their  torches.  First  one  alone 
shot  out  from  the  belt  of  fire  that  surrounded  the  square, 
meteorlike  in  a  wide  arch,  and  fell  in  the  centre  of  the  open 
space  amidst  a  shower  of  sparks.  A  dozen  followed  almost 
immediately,  then  a  hundred,  and  hundreds  more,  till  all  the 
thousand  lay  together,  a  burning  heap,  throwing  up  clouds  of 
lurid  smoke  into  the  night,  and  illuminating  the  great  buildings 
with  a  broad  red  glare. 

Greif  stood  still  a  moment,  watching  the  bonfire,  and  then 
sheathed  his  rapier  and  turned  away.  To  him  it  was  a  sorrow 
ful  sight,  this  ending  of  his  last  torchlight  procession.  He 
remembered  how,  as  a  young  novice,  he  had  stood  in  the  same 
place,  his  heart  full  of  a  strange  enjoyment,  and  he  wished  that 
he  could  go  back  to  those  days  and  live  his  life  again.  During 
nearly  three  years  since  that  time  he  had  been  a  student ;  dur 
ing  more  than  one  he  had  been  a  soldier,  serving  his  time  with 
the  cuirassiers,  and  coming  into  the  town  as  often  as  he  could 
to  spend  an  hour  with  his  Korps.  It  was  all  over  now,  never 
to  begin  again.  Only  among  those  soldiers  whom  he  had 
learned  so  easily  to  love,  could  he  hope  to  find  again  something 
of  that  good  fellowship  he  had  enjoyed  with  the  brethren  of 


168  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

the  Swabian  Korps.  Only  in  larger  strife  could  he  henceforth 
feel  that  glorious  excitement  of  combat  which  had  grown  to 
be  one  of  his  nature's  chief  cravings.  The  Korps  life  had 
done  its  work  in  the  direction  of  his  character,  developing  his 
latent  love  of  organisation  and  law,  accustoming  him  to  look 
upon  cold  steel  as  the  arbiter  of  right,  and  upon  his  country  as 
the  strongest  among  those  that  draw  the  sword. 

"  Earth  shall  have  our  ashes ! "  he  exclaimed  sorrowfully  as 
he  turned  away,  quoting  the  last  words  of  the  song. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  answered  a  familiar  voice  beside  him.  "  Un 
doubtedly  —  wherefore  the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  make  the 
earth  ours  without  delay." 

Greif  laughed,  as  he  recognised  Rex.  The  latter  had  made 
his  way  round,  during  the  throwing  of  the  torches,  in  order  to 
accompany  his  friend  to  the  drinking-hall.  They  moved  away 
together  in  the  great  crowd.  One  ceremony  was  ended,  the 
next  would  begin  in  little  more  than  half  an  hour,  as  soon  as 
all  the  Korps  were  collected  in  the  hall.  This  time,  however, 
the  company  would  include  the  Korps  only,  with  their  friends, 
and  such  members  of  other  Universities  as  had  corne  over  to 
Schwarzburg  to  join  in  the  festivity. 

"  And  now  for  my  last  speech,"  observed  Greif,  as  they  walked. 
"I  wonder  what  is  happening  at  home." 

Rex  did  not  make  any  answer,  but  Greif  saw  that  he  bent 
his  head,  and  seemed  to  start  nervously.  The  reply  came  long 
afterwards,  as  they  were  ascending  the  steps  of  the  drinking- 
hall. 

"I  would  rather  not  know  what  is  happening,"  said  Rex. 
"  But  I  would  like  to  know  where  you  and  I  shall  be,  to-morrow 
at  this  hour." 

"  Probably  together,  with  all  good  Swabians,  at  my  farewell 
feast." 

Rex  shook  his  head.  There  was  not  time  for  more,  as  they 
were  already  within  the  building  and  Greif  was  obliged  to  at 
tend  to  other  matters. 

The  hall  was  splendidly  decorated.  Each  of  the  Korps  had  a 
portion  of  the  walls  allotted  to  it,  before  which  its  tables  were 
arranged  in  order.  From  the  rafters  to  the  floor  vast  draperies 
of  coloured  stuffs  were  hung  and  festooned  so  as  to  show  off  the 
insignia  of  each  association  to  the  best  advantage,  panoplies  of 
swords  and  helmets,  escutcheons  with  broad  bands  of  gold,  silver 


GREIFENSTEIN.  169 

and  black,  scores  of  richly  mounted  drinking-horns,  taken  from 
every  kind  of  beast,  from  the  Italian  ox,  from  the  Indian  buf 
falo,  from  the  almost  extinct  ibex,  and  from  the  American 
mountain  sheep  —  gifts  from  old  members  of  the  Korps  who 
had  wandered  over  the  world,  but  had  not  forgotten  their  old 
companions  —  silver  tankards  upon  brackets,  old  standards  of 
softened  hue  projecting  out  above,  or  crossed  above  coats-of-arms, 
in  short,  every  object  of  beauty  and  value  which  had  become 
the  property  of  the  Swabians  during  the  last  fifty  years.  Every 
other  Korps  had  done  the  same,  till  not  a  foot  of  the  walls  was 
left  bare.  High  above,  in  a  gallery,  sat  the  musicians,  who 
were  to  accompany  the  songs  with  their  instruments,  during  the 
night. 

The  students  assembled  quickly  and  took  their  seats.  As  the 
clock  struck  nine,  Greif,  as  president  of  the  presiding  Korps, 
called  for  silence,  and  ordered  the  opening  "  Salamander." 
Hundreds  of  glasses  rattled  upon  the  oak  boards  in  strict  time, 
and  the  official  Kneipe  was  declared  opened.  The  music  burst 
out  gloriously,  echoing  among  the  great  wooden  beams  of  the 
high  roof,  and  song  upon  song  rose  full  and  melodious  from 
below.  At  last  Greif  rose  again  to  his  feet,  and  all  eyes  were 
turned  upon  him  in  the  dead  silence  which  succeeded  the  joyous 
strains.  He  was  very  pale,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  his  pallor 
was  caused  by  the  emotion  of  thus  taking  leave  of  his  old  com 
rades,  rather  than  by  any  nervousness  about  his  speech. 

He  spoke  long  and  well,  interrupted  occasionally  by  a  short 
loud  burst  of  applause.  It  was  his  especial  good  fortune  to 
address  the  assembled  Korps  for  the  second  time  since  his  name 
had  been  inscribed  upon  the  rolls  of  their  beloved  Alma  Mater ; 
his  greatest  sorrow  was  caused  by  the  thought  that  he  had 
thrown  his  last  torch,  and  must  soon  drain  his  last  toast  as  one 
of  their  number.  Life  was  divided  by  a  sharp  line  into  two 
portions,  of  which  the  sadder  began  when  rapier  and  colours 
were  hung  up  at  home  to  accumulate  the  dust  that  falls  from 
philistinism.  Then  the  head  must  weary  itself  with  staid  mat 
ters,  and  the  hand  must  loosen  its  hold  upon  the  schldger  and 
forget  its  cunning  fence.  Happy  were  those  who  merely  ex 
changed  the  whistling  blade  of  the  student  for  the  heavy  sabre 
of  the  soldier,  the  green  forest  glade  of  the  mensur  for  larger 
battlefields  and  the  hope  of  brighter  fame,  who,  having  shed  an 
ounce  of  blood  in  defence  of  their  student  colours,  could  look 


170  GREIFEN  STEIN. 

forward  to  shedding  all,  to  the  last  drop,  for  king  and  country. 
Happy  were  those  few  to  whom  the  Korps  was  the  beginning 
of  an  active  life,  and  not  the  mere  breathing  space  of  liberty 
and  good  fellowship  between  the  school  bench  and  the  desk. 
But  whatever  was  to  follow,  whatever  had  gone  before,  none 
knew  so  well  as  they  themselves,  how  sweet  was  the  first  taste 
of  freedom,  and  how  swiftly  the  bright  time  glided  away  amidst 
Hie  music  of  the  rapiers,  the  clash  of  beakers,  and  the,  song  of 
free  German  voices. 

Greif  dwelt  upon  the  importance  of  the  Korps  in  the  life  of 
the  University,  upon  the  part  played  by  the  University  in  the 
life  of  the  whole  land,  and  did  not  scruple  to  trace  Germany's 
victories  directly  to  their  origin  in  the  daily  life  of  German 
students,  so  different  from  that  in  other  countries.  Moreover, 
in  his  own  opinion,  and  in  that  of  most  of  his  hearers,  Schwarz- 
burg  had  no  rival  —  certainly  none,  he  added,  in  the  eyes  of 
those  who  belonged  to  it.  Where,  in  all  Germany,  were  there 
such  professors,  such  monuments  of  learning  ?  What  schools 
had  given  more  famous  names  to  the  land,  or  even  so  many  ? 
As  the  good  mother  at  home  was  to  each  student  in  that  assem 
bly,  so  was  their  dear  Alma  Mater  to  them  all.  He  drank  his 
beaker  to  all  good  Korps  students,  to  all  the  brave  colours  there 
assembled,  to  all  the  professors,  to  the  University  itself. 

"  Hoch,  Schwarzburg  !  Iloch  !  "  he  cried  in  ringing  tones  as 
he  raised  his  glass  high  in  air. 

"  Hoch  !     Hoch !     Hoch  ! "  shouted  hundreds  of  voices. 

"  Ad  exercitium  Salamandri !     Eins  !     Zwei !     Drei !  " 

Greif  brought  his  glass  down  upon  the  table  as  he  spoke  the 
last  words,  and  the  long  roll  began,  like  rattling  musketry, 
again  and  again,  to  the  due  number  of  times. 

Greif  sat  down  amidst  thunders  of  applause.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  had  made  a  speech  rather  better  than  the  average  of 
such  performances,  but  a  cool  observer,  or  one  accustomed  to 
such  scenes  would  have  known  that  he  could  not  fail  to  be 
loudly  applauded.  He  was  the  favourite  hero  of  them  all. 
Young,  handsome,  brave,  popular,  not  lacking  the  assurance 
that  leads  a  crowd,  it  might  have  been  foreseen  that  his  last 
feast  would  crown  his  University  triumphs,  with  a  success  pass 
ing  even  his  own  not  very  modest  expectations. 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  171 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  music  rose  and  swelled  and  died  away.  Beneath  the 
brilliant  light  there  was  clashing  of  beakers  and  joyous  drink 
ing  of  deep  toasts  in  the  intervals  between  the  songs.  At 
regular  intervals  Greif  demanded  silence  and  proposed  the  health 
of  each  of  the  other  Korps,  one  by  one,  in  the  order  of  their  pre 
cedence  for  the  year.  A  couple  of  hours  passed  in  this  way,  and 
then  the  signal  was  given  for  the  singing  of  the  "  Landesvater," 
and  the  instruments  struck  up  the  stirring  strain.  Then  at  the 
head  of  each  table  rose  the  two  eldest  fellows,  each  with  a 
pointed  sword  in  his  hand.  In  time  with  the  music,  they  stood 
and  struck  their  rapiers  one  against  the  other,  exchanging  caps 
at  the  last  bars,  and  running  the  sharp  blade  through  the 
embroidered  velvet,  so  that  the  small  head  covering  ran  down 
upon  the  hilt.  Next,  while  the  others  stood  upon  the  floor,  the 
two  leaders  mounted  upon  the  bench  behind  each  row,  on  oppo 
site  sides  of  the  table,  clashing  their  swords  in  time,  high  above 
the  heads  of  the  carousers ;  and  as  the  verse  ended,  each  snatched 
the  cap  from  the  crown  of  the  man  who  sat  below  him  and  ran 
it  down  his  blade  as  he  had  previously  done  with  his  partner's. 
Reaching  in  due  time  the  end  of  the  board,  the  two  stood  cross 
ing  and  recrossing  their  weapons,  until  all  the  others  in  the 
great  hall  had  done  the  same  and  not  one  head  remained  covered. 
With  this  the  first  half  of  the  "  Landesvater  "  was  ended,  and 
a  solemn  toast  was  drunk  to  the  health  of  the  sovereign.  The 
second  part  was  gone  through  in  a  similar  manner,  the  leaders 
returning  along  the  rows  with  the  same  ceremony  and  restoring 
to  each  man  his  own  head  covering  at  the  conclusion  of  each 
verse.  It  is  a  strange  old  custom  of  which  it  is  not  easy  to 
discover  the  origin,  though  the  meaning  is  clear  enough.  Every 
man  of  the  assembly  pledges  his  head  to  live  and  die  for  his 
sovereign  prince  or  king,  and  in  a  country  where  loyalty  is  a 
fact,  and  patriotism  a  passion,  the  expression  of  both  by  an 
ancient  ceremony  is  solemnly  imposing.  So  great  is  the  respect 


172  GREIFENSTEIN. 

felt  for  the  "  Landesvater  "  and  the  sincerity  of  those  who  take 
part  in  it,  that  even  in  such  a  multitude  of  recklessly  gay  youths, 
the  strictest  sobriety  is  required  of  all  until  it  is  over,  and  is 
exacted  under  penalties  of  considerable  severity.  Once  over, 
the  mirth  and  enjoyment  proceed  in  an  increasing  ratio,  though 
it  is  to  the  credit  of  the  German  student  that  his  gaiety  on 
these  public  occasions  never  degenerates  into  unbridled  licence, 
and  that  while  he  sings,  laughs  and  jests  over  his  fiftieth  glass, 
he  maintains  the  outward  forms  of  habitual  courtesy  towards 
his  fellows,  together  with  a  sort  of  manly  dignity  not  unworthy 
of  his  stern  Gothic  forefathers.  The  liquor  is  bland  and  almost 
harmless,  and  the  heads  are  strong,  and  backed  by  iron  consti 
tutions.  The  object  is  not  intoxication  but  jollity,  and  there  is 
a  deliberation  in  the  manner  of  attaining  the  end  by  spending 
eight  or  nine  hours  over  it,  which  effectually  prevents  such 
scenes  as  occur  at  festive  meetings  where  the  time  is  limited 
and  men  make  themselves  beastly  drunk  in  the  attempt  to  be 
merry  before  midnight.  There  is  no  closing  hour  for  the  Ger 
man  students'  carousals.  The  official  part  of  the  affair  is 
declared  to  be  at  an  end  at  twelve  or  one  o'clock,  but  all  may 
stay  as  long  as  they  please,  and  many  are  still  in  their  places 
when  the  day  dawns. 

Greif  and  Rex  sat  side  by  side  at  the  head  of  the  long  table. 
It  was  long  past  midnight,  but  neither  felt  the  need  of  sleep. 
Greif  dreaded  to  go  home,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  taking  his 
last  leave  of  a  life  he  loved.  Rex,  who  was  unnaturally  calm, 
even  for  a  man  of  his  solid  nerve,  sat  motionless  beside  his 
friend,  emptying  his  huge  beaker  twice  in  every  hour  with 
unfailing  regularity.  He  talked  quietly  but  constantly,  inter 
spersing  queer  bits  of  cynicism  and  odds  and  ends  of  uncommon 
wisdom  in  his  placid  conversation.  Greif  knew  by  his  manner 
that  he  was  in  reality  sad  and  preoccupied,  but  was  grateful  for 
his  pleasant  talk,  which  blunted  the  keen  edge  of  this  rupture 
with  first  youth's  associations.  From  time  to  time  Greif  won 
dered  rather  vaguely  whether  his  relations  with  Rex  would 
continue  in  after  life,  and,  if  so,  whether  they  would  not  be 
affected  for  the  worse  by  the  revelation  of  Rex's  identity.  The 
excitement  of  the  evening  had  perhaps  momentarily  expanded 
his  natural  generosity  too  far,  and  while  he  was  quite  aware 
that  he  could  not  now  draw  back  from  the  friendship  with 
honour,  he  was  by  no  means  sure  that  he  might  not  afterwards 


GKEIFEN  STEIN.  173 

regret  his  readiness  to  receive  so  kindly,  as  a  cousin,  him  whom 
he  had  so  much  liked  before  he  had  been  aware  of  the  relation 
ship.  As  he  sat  there,  conversing  with  Rex,  he  attached  an 
amount  of  importance  to  the  situation  which  would  have 
amazed  him,  had  he  known  that  of  which  both  were  ignorant, 
namely,  that  Rex  was  his  half-brother  as  certainly  as  Rieseneck 
was  half-brother  to  old  Greifenstein. 

The  hours  wore  on  till  scarcely  fifty  students  remained  in  the 
hall,  and  they  of  the  sturdy  kind  who  make  very  little  noise 
over  their  amusements. 

"  Shall  we  go  home,  or  stay  till  morning  ? "  asked  Greif  at 
last,  hesitating  whether  to  light  a  fresh  cigar  or  not. 

"We  might  adjourn  to  your  room,"  suggested  Rex.  "We 
can  finish  the  night  there." 

There  was  a  stir  near  the  door,  and  Greif  looked  round,  idly 
at  first,  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  then  with  an  expression  of 
dismay.  A  man  had  entered  the  hall,  a  man  with  a  ghastly 
face,  who  seemed  to  be  making  inquiries  of  the  knot  of  Korps 
servants  who  waited  for  their  tardy  masters.  Graf's  eyes  fixed 
themselves  in  the  anticipation  of  evil,  when  he  saw  that  the 
fellow  wore  the  Greifenstein  livery  and  was  one  of  his  father's 
grooms.  What  was  most  strange  was  that  he  wore  boots  and 
spurs,  as  if  he  had  ridden  hard,  though  he  could  only  have 
reached  Schwarzburg  by  the  railway. 

"  Karl ! "  cried  Greif  in  a  tone  that  made  the  man  start. 
"  What  are  you  doing  here?" 

Karl  crossed  the  hall,  his  face  growing  paler  than  ever,  and 
his  teeth  chattering.  He  had  not  had  time  to  recover  from  the 
thought  of  what  he  had  left  behind  him.  His  hands  trembled 
violently  as  they  grasped  the  military  cap  he  held. 

"  Herr  Baron  —  "  he  stammered,  staring  at  Greif  with  wide 
and  frightened  eyes.  "  Herr  Baron  —  "  he  began  again,  trying 
to  frame  the  words. 

"  Speak,  Karl ! "  exclaimed  Greif  making  a  desperate  effort 
to  seem  calm,  though  he  instinctively  dreaded  the  words  which 
must  fall  from  the  man's  lips. 

The  groom  turned  appealingly  to  Rex,  who  sat  motionless  in 
his  place,  scrutinising  the  messenger  with  his  stony  glance. 

"  My  God !  "  cried  he.  "  I  cannot  tell  him  !  Sir,  are  you  a 
friend  of  the  Herr  Baron  ?  " 

Rex  nodded,  and  laying  one  hand  upon  Greif 's  shoulder  as 


174  GKE1FENSTEIN. 

though  to  make  him  keep  his  seat,  rose  and  made  a  sign  to  the 
groom  to  follow  him.  But  Greif  would  not  submit  to  be  treated 
like  a  child,  and  sprang  up,  seizing  the  man's  arm  and  drawing 
him  nearer. 

"I  will  hear  it  myself,"  he  said  firmly.  "Is  it  my  father?" 
he  asked  in  uncertain  tones. 

Karl  nodded  gravely. 

"I  caught  the  train  as  I  jumped  from  the  saddle,"  he 
answered. 

"  My  mother  sent  you  ?  "  asked  Greif  anxiously. 

The  groom  shook  his  head,  and  his  tremor  increased,  while 
he  stared  wildly  about  as  though  in  search  of  some  escape  from 
his  awful  mission. 

"Speak,  man!"  cried  Greif,  mad  with  anxiety.  "My  father 
is  ill  —  and  you  are  here  though  my  mother  did  not  send  you  — 
speak,  I  say." 

"  They  are  dead,"  answered  Karl  in  a  low  voice. 

Greif  sank  into  his  seat  and  covered  his  face.  Suddenly  Rex's 
impenetrable  eyes  flashed,  and  he,  last  of  the  three,  turned 
white  to  the  lips. 

"  Is  there  another  gentleman  at  Greifenstein  ? "  he  asked 
quickly. 

"  He  is  also  with  them,  sir." 

"  Dead  ?  " 

"  He  shot  himself." 

Rex  closed  his  eyes  and  held  the  table  with  his  two  hands, 
for  he  knew  who  the  stranger  had  been.  Seeing  that  Greif  did 
not  move,  and  supposing  that  Rex  was  a  mere  acquaintance,  the 
man  took  courage  to  tell  the  story,  speaking  in  a  low  voice  to 
Rex. 

"  The  gentleman  arrived  before  dinner,"  he  said.  "  Their 
merciful  lordships  dined  together,  but  the  butler  said  they  left 
the  table  before  it  was  time.  Then  they  heard  firing  in  the 
house.  We  broke  the  doors  and  found  the  Lady  Baroness  dead, 
in  the  room  beyond  the  Herr  Baron's  study,  and  in  the  study 
the  Herr  Bat'on  dead  with  a  pistol  in  his  hand,  and  the  other 
gentleman  dead  with  another  pistol  in  his  hand.  I  saw  them. 
They  had  shot  themselves  as  they  sat  in  their  chairs  before  the 
fire,  but  the  fire  was  nearly  gone  out,  though  the  lamp  was 
burning.  And  then  we  saddled  and  rode,  we  four,  one  for 


GREIFENSTEIN.  175 

the  police,  one  for  the  doctor,  one  for  Sigraundskron,  and  I 
for  the  railway,  and  here  I  am.  You  are  a  good  friend  of  the 
young  Herr,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  I  am,"  answered  Rex,  starting  as  though  from 
sleep. 

"  Then  it  would  be  best,  sir,  that  you  should  tell  me  whither 
I  should  go,  for  the  young  Herr  will  be  worse  if  he  sees  me." 

"  Ask  your  way  to  the  Red  Eagle  Inn,"  said  Rex,  "  and  stay 
there  till  we  send  for  you." 

He  gave  the  man  a  handful  of  loose  coin,  thoughtful  of  all 
contingencies,  as  he  ever  was. 

"  You  need  not  talk  about  this  horrible  catastrophe,"  he  said, 
as  he  dismissed  the  frightened  groom. 

The  latter  disappeared  as  fast  as  he  could,  glad  to  get  away 
from  the  sight  of  Greif's  misery,  and  glad  to  have  found  some 
one  to  help  him  in  telling  his  fearful  tale.  When  he  was  gone 
Rex  laid  his  hand  upon  Greif's  shoulder,  and  spoke  in  a  tone 
of  quiet  authority. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said.  Greif  rose  to  his  feet  like  a  man 
in  a  dream,  and  allowed  Rex  to  put  on  his  topcoat  for  him,  and 
to  lead  him  out  of  the  almost  deserted  hall,  through  the  group  of 
servants  who  loitered  at  the  door  and  made  way  respectfully 
for  the  pair  to  pass. 

"  Whither  ?  "  asked  Greif  as  they  stood  in  the  cold  street. 

"  To  your  room,"  answered  Rex,  quietly  passing  his  arm 
through  his  friend's  and  gently  urging  him  to  move  forward. 

Greif  did  not  remember  afterwards  how  he  had  found  his 
way  from  the  hall  to  his  lodging.  Neither  he  nor  Rex  spoke 
during  the  quarter  of  an  hour  they  employed  in  reaching  the 
street  door,  but  Rex's  arm  was  aching  with  the  effort  of  sus 
taining  and  directing  his  companion.  He  lit  a  taper  and 
prepared  to  help  him  up  the  stairs.  But  the  sight  of  the 
familiar  entrance  recalled  Greif  to  himself  and  dissipated 
the  first  stupor  of  his  grief.  He  ascended  the  steps  firmly, 
though  he  went  like  a  man  overcome  with  fatigue,  to  whom 
every  movement  is  difficult.  Still  silent,  Rex  lit  the  lamp  in 
the  small  room,  and  began  to  help  Greif  to  take  off  his  mantle. 
But  Greif  pushed  him  aside  gently  and  sat  down  as  he  was 
upon  the  well-worn  chair.  Rex  went  and  sat  himself  down  in 
a  corner  at  some  distance  and  waited.  His  instinct  told  him 


176  GREIFENSTEIN. 

that  his  friend  must  have  time  to  recover  from  the  first  shock 
before  anything  could  be  done.  He  shaded  his  eyes  from  the 
light  with  one  hand,  and  thought  of  his  own  sorrow. 

The  silence  was  intense.  It  was  as  though  the  spirits  of  the 
dead,  of  the  mother  of  both  and  of  the  father  of  each,  were 
present  in  the  commonplace  chamber  where  sat  their  two  sons, 
not  knowing  each  other  for  brothers,  though  overwhelmed  by 
the  same  calamity.  It  seemed  as  if  the  murdered  woman  and 
her  dead  murderers  were  standing  silently  in  the  midst  of  the 
small  room,  watching  to  see  what  should  happen  to  those  they 
had  left  behind. 

At  last  Greif  raised  his  white  face  and  looked  towards  Rex. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said  simply. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Rex.     "  We  must  bury  our  dead." 

Greif  looked  at  him  as  though  asking  for  an  explanation  of 
the  words.  He  had  not  heard  all  the  groom's  story. 

"My  father  is  also  with  them,"  said  Rex,  answering  the 
unspoken  question. 

Greif  grasped  the  table  and  stared  at  his  companion  stupidly 
for  a  moment.  Then  all  at  once  his  pale  face  grew  luminous 
and  his  eyes  glittered. 

"Rieseneck?"  he  cried,  in  a  suffocated  tone.  "Your  father 
has  slain  mine  and  yet  you  are  here  — "  He  rose  from  his 
seat,  half  mad  with  horror,  as  though  he  would  spring  upon  his 
friend.  But  the  latter  interrupted  him,  in  atone  which  enforced 
attention. 

"Your  mother  is  dead  —  God  knows  how.  Your  father  and 
my  father  shot  themselves,  sitting  in  their  chairs." 

Again  Greif's  head  sank  upon  his  clasped  hands,  and  again 
the  deadly  silence  descended  upon  the  chamber. 

The  long  December  night  was  over  and  it  was  broad  dawn 
when  the  two  men  got  out  of  the  express  train  at  the  station 
nearest  to  Greifenstein.  Without  a  word  they  entered  the  car 
riage  that  had  been  waiting  for  them,  and  the  sturdy  horses 
plunged  into  the  forest,  breasting  the  ascent  as  only  strong 
animals  can  on  a  cold  winter's  morning.  The  early  light  made 
the  great  trees  look  unspeakably  gloomy  and  mournful.  There 
was  not  a  tinge  of  colour  to  relieve  the  dead  black  shadows,  or 
the  icy  grey  of  the  driven  snow.  The  tall  firs  stood  solemn  and 
motionless  like  overgrown  cypresses,  planted  in  an  endless 
graveyard,  filled  with  myriads  of  snow-covered  graves,  and  in 


GREIFEN  STEIN.  177 

the  midst  Greif  and  Rex  were  whirled  along  over  the  winding 
road,  pale  as  dead  men  themselves  as  they  sat  side  by  side  in 
their  dark  garments,  with  set  lips  and  eyes  half  closed  against 
the  freezing  wind. 

But  when  the  towering  wall  of  Greifenstein  came  into  sight  far 
off  above  the  black  tree-tops,  Greif  started  and  leaned  forward, 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  his  home  ;  nor  did  he  change  his  attitude 
until  the  carriage  drew  up  before  the  deep  gateway,  and  he  was 
aware  of  a  crowd  of  men  and  women  who  stood  there  awaiting 
his  arrival.  Before  all  the  rest,  he  saw  the  tall  thin  figure 
of  Frau  von  Sigmundskron.  Her  white  hands  were  clasped 
together  and  she  was  bareheaded.  Standing  out  before  the 
others,  in  her  gown  of  sober  grey,  she  looked  like  a  mediaeval 
saint  suddenly  come  down  to  earth  in  modern  times.  As  Greif 
descended  she  held  out  her  arms  to  greet  him.  He  realised 
that  she  must  have  journeyed  from  Sigmundskron  in  the 
night  in  order  to  be  before  him. 

"  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  kissing  her  hands. 

With  an  effort  of  will  that  would  have  done  credit  to  his 
dead  father,  he  entered  the  castle,  bending  his  head  gravely  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  servants'  tearful  salutations.  Though 
most  of  them  were  the  merest  hirelings  in  the  house,  who  had 
lately  succeeded  others  like  themselves,  yet  almost  all  were  in 
tears. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  looked  at  Rex  in  some  surprise. 

"  A  friend  ?  "  she  asked  with  some  hesitation. 

"  More,"  answered  Greif.  "  Let  us  go  to  some  place  where 
we  can  be  alone." 

He  shivered  as  he  felt  that  he  was  under  the  very  roof  where 
those  he  loved  best  were  lying  cold  and  stark  in  death,  but  he 
set  his  lips  and  clenched  his  fingers,  determined  to  bear  all  that 
was  in  store  for  him.  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  hesitated  as 
they  approached  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  and  she  looked 
sideways  at  Greif. 

"  Better  to  my  rooms,"  he  said.  And  so  the  three  went  on 
through  corridors  and  staircases  till  they  reached  the  young 
man's  apartments.  He  closed  the  door,  and  glanced  at  Rex. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  latter  at  once,  "  I  am  called  Rex,  but  that 
is  not  my  name.  I  am  the  son  of  Kuno  von  Rieseneck.  I  have 
Herr  von  Greifenstein's  permission  to  pay  my  last  duty  to  my 
dead  father." 


178  GREIFENSTEIN. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  raised  her  gentle  eyes  in  astonish 
ment  and  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  two  men. 

"  Rex  is  my  best  friend,"  said  Greif.  "  He  needed  no  permis 
sion  of  mine  to  come  here.  I  will  explain  all  at  another  time. 
And  now  — "  his  voice  broke,  and  he  turned  away,  but  recov 
ered  himself  almost  immediately.  "  And  now,  I  beg  that  you 
will  tell  us  what  you  know." 

The  good  baroness  detested  weakness  in  herself  and  could 
not  bear  to  see  it  in  others,  so  that  she  told  her  story  clearly 
and  concisely,  though  with  much  caution  and  thoughtful  tact. 
While  she  spoke  she  watched  the  two  friends,  who  sat  motion 
less  beside  her,  their  hands  clasped  upon  their  knees,  their 
heads  bent  down,  their  faces  white  with  emotion.  The  sun 
was  already  above  the  hills,  and  while  she  spoke  the  first  rays 
fell  through  the  ancient  casement  upon  the  carpet  of  the  room, 
casting  soft  reflections  upon  the  pallid  features  of  the  three 
persons. 

"  I  will  go  to  them,"  said  Greif  when  she  had  finished,  and 
he  rose  to  his  feet.  The  baroness  prepared  to  show  him  the 
way,  and  Rex  would  have  followed,  but  she  stopped  him  by  a 
gesture. 

"  I  will  come  back  for  you,"  she  said.  "  They  are  not 
together." 

She  let  Greif  enter  the  chamber  alone  and  softly  closed  the 
door  after  him.  Then  she  returned  to  Rex.  He  was  standing 
where  she  had  left  him. 

"  I  have  something  to  say,"  she  began,  "  and  something  to 
give  you.  This  letter  is  yours.  It  was  found  in  the  room, 
sealed,  directed  and  stamped,  as  though  it  were  to  be  posted,  as 
it  would  have  been  had  you  not  come.  Nothing  has  been  dis 
covered  for  Greif,  and  this  must  have  been  written  by  Herr  von 
Rieseneck.  You  are  older  than  Greif,  though  he  is  brave 
enough,  poor  fellow.  Here  it  is.  Will  you  be  alone  to  read 
it?  I  will  go  into  the  next  room  until  you  call  me." 

"  Madam,"  answered  Rex,  taking  the  letter,  "  I  will  not  trouble 
you  by  any  exhibition  of  my  feelings,  if  you  will  stay  here." 

He  looked  at  the  superscription,  and  cut  the  envelope  open 
neatly  with  his  pocket-knife  so  as  not  to  break  the  seal.  Frau 
von  Sigmundskron  was  too  well-bred  to  watch  his  face  while 
he  read  the  contents.  Had  she  looked,  she  would  have  been 
terrified. 


GREIFENSTE1N.  179 

The  note  was  very  short,  but  it  contained  enough  to  shake 
even  Rex's  calm  nature. 

"  My  son,  when  you  receive  this,  I  shall  be  dead.  I  arrived 
here  this  evening  and  t  have  discovered  that  Frau  von  Greifen- 
stein  is  your  mother,  my  wife.  She  made  me  believe  that  she 
was  dead  and  married  my  brother  under  a  false  name.  She 
has  atoned  for  her  crimes  to  her  two  husbands,  who  have  done 
justice  upon  her,  and  now  we  also  are  about  to  pay  the  penalty 
of  having  executed  that  justice  which  is  above  all  laws.  At 
the  point  of  death,  I  give  this  secret  into  your  keeping.  Your 
brother  is  a  nameless  bastard.  Do  not  ruin  him  by  betraying 
the  shame  of  your  father  and  of  his.  You  are  rich,  but  were 
you  poor  you  would  have  no  title  to  my  brother's  inheritance. 
Do  not  come  to  this  place.  They  will  bury  me  as  decently  as 
I  deserve.  Farewell.  God  keep  you,  and  make  you  happier 
than  I  have  been.  —  Your  father, 

"  VON  RlESENECK. 
"  SCHLOSS  GREIFENSTEIN,  December  20." 

As  Rex  read  the  words  he  instinctively  turned  away.  His 
face  was  hideously  distorted  and  his  stony  eyes  seemed  changed 
into  coals  of  fire.  Every  fibre  of  his  strong  nature  was  strained 
and  tortured  by  the  iron  grip  of  his  suffering.  Every  pulse  of 
his  body  beat  with  a  frantic  rage  for  which  no  outlet  was  possi 
ble.  His  eyeballs  burned  with  excruciating  pain  as  he  attempted 
to  read  again  the  letter  he  still  held  in  his  hands.  He  was  one 
of  those  habitually  calm  men  who  become  almost  insane  when 
they  are  angry,  and  in  whose  placid  strength  passion  of  any 
sort,  when  roused,  finds  its  most  dangerous  material.  For  a 
full  minute  he  stood  speechless,  feeling  as  though  his  emotion 
must  find  some  physical  expression,  lest  it  should  kill  him  there 
and  then. 

He  heard  a  footstep,  and  then  the  door  opened  and  closed 
softly.  Looking  round,  he  saw  that  he  was  alone ;  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron  had  understood  from  what  she  could  see  of  his 
attitude  that  the  letter  had  brought  him  news  even  worse  than 
that  of  his  father's  death,  and  she  had  felt  that  to  stay  any 
longer  would  have  been  to  intrude  upon  a  sorrow  in  which  she 
could  have  no  share.  Seeing  that  she  was  gone,  Rex  abandoned 
all  restraint  over  himself,  and  submitted  for  a  time  to  the  over- 


180  GKEIFENSTEIK. 

whelming  influences  that  surrounded  him  on  all  sides.  His 
face  became  livid  as  he  threw  himself  upon  the  couch,  and  his 
fingers  were  twisted  unnaturally,  as  though  their  nerves  were 
irritated  by  a  strong  electric  current.  Lying  on  his  back,  he 
rolled  his  head  from  side  to  side,  like  a  man  tortured  on  the 
rack,  while  his  reddening  eyes  kept  their  sight  fixed  upon  a 
blank  point  of  the  ceiling.  The  pain  in  his  temples  was  as  that 
of  a  red-hot  screw  boring  its  way  through  his  brain,  and  while 
his  white  teeth  ground  audibly  upon  each  other  his  quick-coming 
breath  blew  a  scarcely  perceptible  foam  from  his  strained  and 
parted  lips. 

Father,  mother,  honour,  were  gone  at  one  blow.  Not  the 
mother  he  had  learned  to  dream  of  as  a  boy,  when  some  faint 
memory  of  her  fair  face  was  still  with  him ;  not  the  tender  and 
gentle  mother  who,  if  she  had  lived,  would  have  been  dearest 
on  earth  to  him,  and  whose  untimely  death  had  lent  her  some 
thing  heavenly  and  brightly  mysterious ;  not  the  mother  of 
whom  his  father  had  often  told  him,  who  from  her  place  of 
peace  looked  down,  perhaps,  and  smiled  when  he  did  well,  or 
was  pained  when  he  did  wrong ;  not  the  mother  who,  in  his 
sleep,  seemed  to  walk  beside  him  when  he  was  a  child,  robed 
in  white,  holding  him  by  the  hand  and  pointing  heavenwards, 
like  the  picture  of  the  Guardian  Angel  so  common  in  his  native 
country ;  not  that  mother  who  was  to  him  the  embodiment  of 
all  that  was  pure  and  lovely,  and  saintly  and  kind ;  not  that 
sweet  mother  who  for  nearly  forty  years  had  held  her  secret 
place  in  the  strange  labyrinths  of  the  lonely  student's  heart,  to 
whose  angelic  figure  he  had  often  turned  for  consolation  when 
weary  with  the  aimlessness  of  deep  study  that  led  to  nothing, 
or  when  satiated  with  all  the  useless,  pleasureless  pleasure 
which  money  could  give  and  which  there  was  no  one  to  forbid. 
That  dear  image  was  gone,  but  she  was  not  the  mother  he  had 
lost.  She  who  had  borne  him  was  lying  near  him  now,  under 
that  very  roof.  She  had  cast  him  off,  him  and  his  father,  to 
spend  all  those  years  when  he  had  thought  her  dead,  with 
another  man,  worst  shame  of  all,  with  the  brother  of  her  hus 
band.  And  she  had  borne  another  son,  she  had  given  a  brother 
to  her  first-born,  whom  the  world  called  noble  and  rich,  who  in 
truth  was  penniless  and  nameless  as  any  beggar  in  the  street. 
She  had  heaped  dishonour  upon  father  and  son,  and  she  had 
borne  in  dishonour  a  second  son  and  shamed  the  spotless  life 


GREIFENSTEIN.  181 

of  a  second  father.  And  this  woman,  this  wretch,  this  creature 
for  whom  no  speakable  name  could  be  found,  was  his  own 
mother,  and  was  henceforth  to  stand  in  the  place  of  her  whose 
mere  memory  had  been  half  divine.  Her  vile  life,  forfeited  for 
her  crimes  as  shamefully  as  though  she  had  died  by  the  defam 
ing  hands  of  the  common  hangman,  her  hideous  existence  was 
thrust  before  him  in  all  its  abomination,  as  the  source  of  his 
own,  in  the  stead  of  all  that  had  seemed  most  holy  and  chaste 
and  worthy  of  his  reverence.  Was  not  her  blood  in  his  veins  ? 
Must  not  her  evil  nature  of  necessity  show  itself  sooner  or  later 
in  his  own  ?  Better  the  ounce  weight  of  a  finger  upon  that 
little  bar  of  steel,  to  press  which  was  to  go  beyond  the  risk  of 
human  infamy,  beyond  the  possibility  of  reproducing  in  his 
own  life  the  merest  shadow  of  the  sins  that  had  darkened  hers 
to  the  end.  Better  to  cross  at  once  that  bridge  whose  passage 
is  never  choked  because  all  who  go  over  move  ever  in  the  same 
way,  and  none  pause  whose  path  has  led  them  to  its  hither 
side.  Better  to  leap  at  once  and  take  his  secret  out  of  human 
keeping. 

He  would  not  have  believed  the  horror  if  he  had  learned  it 
from  living  man.  But  the  message  came  from  those  who  had 
sealed  its  truth  with  the  dark  red  seal ;  it  came  from  two  men 
who  had  not  been  mistaken,  of  whom  either,  suspecting  a  mis 
take,  would  have  slain  the  other  for  the  mere  accusation  ;  old 
men  not  carried  away  by  a  fleeting  resemblance,  by  the  breath 
of  a  word  half  understood,  by  suspicion  of  a  glance  only  half 
seen ;  stern,  bold  men  —  too  stern  to  relent,  but  far  too  brave 
to  be  moved  suddenly  to  senseless  wrath  against  an  innocent 
woman ;  proud  men,  both,  who  would  have  denied  to  each  other 
the  possibility  of  their  common  shame,  so  long  as  denial  was 
humanly  possible. 

There  could  be  no  doubt,  no  shadow  of  a  hope.  Greif  von 
Greifenstein  was  brother  to  Rex,  and  both  were  fatherless  and 
motherless  on  the  same  day.  Why  live  on,  beneath  the  weight 
of  memories  which  no  time  could  efface  and  no  future  happiness 
soften  ?  Had  he  any  obligations  to  mankind,  had  he  any  pride 
of  half-fulfilled  hopes,  of  half -satisfied  ambition?  What  had 
his  life  been?  A  nameless  one,  though  of  the  two  he  alone 
could  claim  a  name,  if  all  were  known.  What  had  he  done 
with  it?  He  had  attempted  to  explore  the  sources  of  life  and 
the  first  origin  of  all  those  strange  states  which  life  brings  with 


182  GREIFENSTEIN. 

it.  He  had  spent  years  in  patient  study,  and  again  for  months 
he  had  experimented  upon  his  own  incomprehensible  sensations, 
by  alternately  procuring  himself  every  pleasure  and  amusement 
which  money  could  command,  and  then  seeking  the  contrast  of 
solitary  asceticism.  His  iron  constitution  of  body  had  survived 
all,  but  his  bright  intelligence  had  wearied  of  the  struggle, 
bruising  its  keen  edge  against  the  rocky  barriers  of  the  eternal 
and  the  unknown.  Wiser  than  his  fellows,  he  knew  that  he 
was  no  wiser  than  before ;  stronger  than  they,  he  knew  the 
weakness  of  all  strength  ;  brave  as  the  bravest,  bravery  seemed 
to  him  but  a  clumsy  exhibition  of  vanity  at  best,  and  altogether 
contemptible  from  the  moment  it  began  to  seek  occasions  for 
showing  itself.  He  could  have  understood  playing  the  coward 
for  sake  of  examining  the  sensation,  and  would  have  laughed  at 
his  own  vanity,  when  it  led  him  to  redeem  his  character  the 
next  moment  by  some  act  of  reckless  daring.  What  was  it  all, 
but  an  amazing  show  of  puppets,  an  astounding  dance  of  lay- 
figures,  animated  by  strings  of  which  the  ends  opposite  from 
men  were  lost  in  infinite  distance?  To  dance,  or  not  to  dance, 
was  all  the  choice  men  had,  and  rather  than  play  a  part  in  such 
a  show  as  fell  to  his  lot,  it  seemed  better  to  break  the  strings 
and  let  the  miserable  marionette  fall  into  the  black  hole  behind 
the  stage. 

The  possibility  of  adding  a  fourth  link  to  the  chain  of  death 
arrested  Rex's  frenzy.  Since  it  was  so  easy  to  die,  the  escape 
from  an  earthly  hell  was  always  at  hand.  If,  then,  he  lived,  it 
must  be  of  his  own  free  will,  and  it  did  not  beseem  a  man  to 
do  with  such  an  ill  grace  what  he  did  from  his  choice.  Either 
he  must  end  the  matter  decently  and  quietly  at  once,  or,  choos 
ing  not  to  end  it,  he  must  gather  his  strength  and  resume  the 
direction  of  his  existence.  No  other  conclusion  was  possible. 
His  secret  was  his  own,  and  none  need  know  it.  All  was  over, 
and  the  disclosure  of  the  truth  could  not  help  justice,  any  more 
than  its  concealment  could  injure  any  one.  On  the  contrary, 
to  tell  what  he  knew  would  be  to  ruin  Greif . 

At  the  thought  of  Greif,  Rex  grew  calm,  and  sat  upright  on 
the  couch,  supporting  himself  with  his  hands  and  gazing  absently 
at  the  opposite  wall.  He  had  something  left  to  live  for,  since 
Greif  was  his  brother  —  Greif,  who  was  at  this  very  moment 
weeping  over  the  body  of  her  who  was  mother  to  both,  looking 
for  the  last  time  upon  that  face  which  doubtless  recalled  to  him 


GREIFENSTEIN.  183 

the  same  tender  memories  Rex  himself  had  cherished  so  long 
and  so  faithfully.  A  strong  desire  to  see  her  took  hold  of  him. 
The  mistaken  veneration  of  a  lifetime  was  gone  in  a  moment 
and  Rex  experienced  the  necessity  of  putting  in  its  place  the 
truth,  however  horrible  it  might  be.  But,  unknown  to  him,  a 
touch  of  tenderness  remained  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  Sin 
ful,  ruined,  dead  by  the  hands  of  the  men  she  had  foully  wronged, 
she  had  nevertheless  been  his  mother.  He  said  to  himself  that 
he  would  see  her,  in  order  that  the  last  impression  might  finally 
wipe  out  all  those  that  had  been  sweet  before  it ;  but  in  spite  of 
every  circumstance  of  shame  that  had  attended  her  death,  and 
in  spite  of  his  own  reasoning,  what  drew  him  to  her  was  in 
reality  the  strength  of  what  he  believed  to  be  wholly  eradicated 
and  torn  from  him,  the  unconscious  longing  to  see  once  more 
the  face  of  her  who  had  borne  him,  and  whose  image  had  been 
with  him  since  he  was  a  little  child.  . 

To  see  her,  and  then  —  what  then  ?  The  future  was  a  blank, 
of  which  the  monotony  was  broken  only  by  the  figure  of  Greif. 
The  idea  of  devoting  himself  to  his  brother,  and  of  expending 
all  his  strength  and  intelligence  in  the  attempt  to  make  him 
outlive  the  dreadful  memory  of  this  day,  presented  itself  to 
Rex's  mind.  He  smiled  faintly,  for  the  thought  was  unlike 
most  of  his  thoughts.  He  did  not  remember  to  have  ever 
before  entertained  a  similar  project.  He  had  sacrificed  his 
inclinations  many  times  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  and  even 
occasionally  out  of  good  nature,  but  he  had  never  set  himself 
the  task  of  systematically  benefiting  another  man.  And  yet, 
he  knew  well  enough  that  Greif  would  need  support  and  help 
and  comfort,  and  that  there  would  be  none  at  hand  to  offer  all 
these,  save  Rex  himself. 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  paced  the  room,  his  hands  behind 
him,  his  eyes  bent  down.  His  face  still  bore  the  marks  of  his 
sudden  and  terrible  suffering,  but  the  perfectly  balanced  powers 
of  his  mind  were  already  beginning  to  assert  themselves.  The 
habit  of  scepticism,  that  is,  of  systematic  inquiry  into  all  that 
befell  him,  was  too  strong  to  remain  long  in  abeyance,  and  the 
equilibrium  of  the  mental  forces,  cultivated  to  excess  by  his 
method  of  study,  was  too  stable  in  nature  to  be  long  disturbed, 
even  by  the  greatest  calamity.  To-day  he  saw  the  necessity  of 
applying  his  intelligence  to  the  alleviation  of  Greif's  sorrow  and 
to  the  preservation  of  Greif's  existence,  endangered  by  such  a 


184  GKEIFENSTE1N. 

blow.  In  a  few  weeks  at  the  latest,  his  own  sufferings  would 
acquire  an  objective  interest,  and  would  become  so  many  data 
for  study  in  the  great  case  of  all  humanity.  Rex  could  never 
have  been  a  hero.  He  could  never  have  detached  his  own  indi 
viduality  from  its  place  in  his  map  of  mankind,  so  as  to  believe 
himself  different  from  all  other  men,  as  heroes  must  believe 
themselves.  He  felt  that  the  balance  lay  between  his  own  life 
and  death,  and  that  he  could  turn  the  scale  at  his  own  choice ; 
he  could  never  have  made  himself  forget  life  in  the  hope  of 
victory,  nor  death  in  the  fear  of  failure.  Incapable  of  any 
transcendental  belief  whatsoever,  his  intelligence  had  deified 
free-agency,  while  his  unacknowledged  suspicion  of  a  directing 
power  asserted  itself  in  his  theories  concerning  nature's  fatal 
ism.  He  supposed  that  the  machinery  of  the  universe  produced 
inevitable  phases  in  the  lives  of  individuals  and  of  nations ;  he 
knew  that  in  all  that  had  happened  to  him  he  had  been  free  to 
exercise  his  choice  between  two  alternatives.  Such  a  choice 
was  now  before  him,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  deter 
mined  to  devote  himself  to  the  welfare  of  another. 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  185 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AN  hour  later  Eex  was  supporting  Greif  as  he  returned  from 
the  state  bedchamber  to  his  own  room.  Strong  and  deter 
mined  to  be  calm  as  the  young  man  was,  the  sight  had  been 
too  much  for  him,  and  it  was  clear  that  unless  he  could  obtain 
sleep  his  nerves  must  break  down  under  the  strain  they  suffered. 
He  reeled  in  his  walk  like  a  man  half  asleep,  his  bright  eyes 
were  glassy  and  fixed,  his  relaxed  fingers  were  incapable  of 
grasping  Rex's  arm,  and  the  latter  held  him  upright  upon  his 
feet  and  almost  carried  him  along  the  dim  corridors. 

Rex  also  had  seen,  but  when  he  had  once  been  face  to  face 
M'ith  that  which  had  irresistibly  drawn  him  to  the  room,  he  had 
felt  no  desire  to  look  again.  The  drawn,  white  features  of  the 
dead  lady  recalled  nothing  to  his  mind  out  of  the  sweetness  of 
the  past,  while  their  fixed  expression  of  pain  intensified  the 
horror  of  the  present  until  it  grew  unbearable.  He  had  stayed 
long  in  the  other  chamber,  where  his  father  lay,  and  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  stern  dark  face  his  wrath  rose,  swelling  tumultu- 
ously  in  his  breast,  as  the  tide  of  the  sea,  ebbing  away  as  he 
thought  of  what  was  beyond  and  as  he  realised  that  all  ven 
geance  had  been  accomplished,  and  all  justice  done,  so  that  no 
one  remained  alive  against  whom  he  could  feel  anger,  no  one 
upon  whom  his  hand  could  fall.  They  had  taken  the  law  into 
their  own  hands  and  had  executed  its  extreme  sentence  upon 
her  who  had  wronged  them,  and  they  had  expiated  their  deed 
in  their  own  bodies.  Never  was  tragedy  so  swift,  so  desperate 
and  so  complete. 

And  now  the  morning  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens,  mocking 
the  solemn  darkness  of  men's  hearts  with  his  fierce  brightness, 
shining  upon  the  ancient  walls  of  Greifenstein  as  coldly  and 
clearly  through  the  keen  winter  air  as  he  had  shone  yesterday 
and  as  he  would  shine  to-morrow.  From  eave  and  stringcourse 
and  dripstone  of  the  old  castle  the  melting  patches  of  dazzling 
snow  sent  down  mimic  showers  of  diamond  drops,  and  the 


186  GREIFENSTEIN. 

moisture  thawed  from  them  made  dark  stains  upon  the  grey 
masonry.  A  redbreast  skipped  about  the  furrows  made  in  the 
white  carpet  by  the  carriage  wheels,  paused,  turned  his  .tiny 
impertinent  head,  and  glanced  up  at  the  ramparts  with  a  squint, 
as  though  to  tell  the  time  of  day  by  the  sun  and  the  shadows  of 
the  projecting  eaves.  From  the  paved  court  of  the  stables,  where 
all  had  been  hurry  and  confusion  on  the  previous  night,  came  the 
occasional  noise  of  an  impatient  hoof  stamping  upon  the  stones, 
the  even  sound  of  brushes  on  smooth  coats  as  the  men  leisurely 
groomed  the  horses,  the  tinkling  of  curb-chains  polished  and 
rubbed  together  by  idle  lads  who  were  in  no  hurry,  and  occa 
sionally  the  echo  of  a  voice,  instantly  subdued  to  an  undertone 
as  the  speaker  remembered  that  this  day  was  not  to  be  like  other 
days.  At  the  door  of  the  servants'  hall  the  two  comfortable 
policemen  in  their  dark  uniforms  and  shining  buttons  sunned 
their  fair  beards  as  they  smoked  their  morning  pipes,  exchang 
ing  a  remark  iti  a  low  voice  about  once  in  five  minutes,  and 
never  without  previously  looking  round  to  see  whether  any 
one  was  listening  to  them,  but  chiefly  occupied  in  watching  an 
underkeeper  who  was  feeding  the  big  hounds  in  a  sunny  corner 
of  the  inner  court. 

Mature,  in  her  pitiless  irony,  seemed  more  than  usually  mirth 
ful  on  that  clear  morning.  It  was  such  a  day  as  old  Greifenstein 
who  lay  upstairs,  dead  beside  his  dead  wife,  would  have  chosen 
to  tramp  far  into  the  forest,  with  his  gun  on  his  shoulder  and 
his  dogs  at  his  heels.  It  was  such  a  day  as  would  have  made 
poor  Clara's  lot  seem  easier,  softening  her  tortured  conscience 
in  a  thaw  of  passing  satisfaction,  pleasant  while  it  lasted,  transi 
tory  as  the  gleam  of  light  and  warmth  in  the  dismal  winter  of 
the  Black  Forest.  The  forest  itself  alone  was  unchanged.  The 
trees  looked  blacker  than  ever  against  the  blue  sky  and  under 
the  violent  light.  Around  the  vast  amphitheatre  of  the  hills 
they  stood  motionless  in  their  even  rows,  like  a  great  assembly 
of  dark-robed  judges,  judging  the  dead  who  lay  in  their  midst, 
inquisitors  whom  no  brightness  could  brighten,  and  in  whose 
sombre  countenances  no  smile  was  reflected  from  the  glorious 
sky  and  dazzling  light.  Silent,  grand,  funereal,  they  stood  in 
their  places  as  they  had  stood  a  hundred  years  ago,  before  those 
lives  began  which  had  now  suddenly  gone  out,  as  they  would 
stand  when  those  other  lives  were  extinguished  which  now  were 
young. 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  187 

Neither  Greif  nor  Rex  were  seen  again  that  day.  In  the 
course  of  time  the  representatives  of  the  law  arrived,  did  their 
office,  and  were  regaled  with  a  collation  by  the  butler,  during 
which  they  sat  upon  the  chairs  which  last  night  had  been  occu 
pied  by  those  whose  end  they  had  come  to  ascertain.  The  case 
was  very  plain  and  their  duties  were  simple.  They  went  away 
and  took  the  two  policemen  with  them.  Frau  von  Sigmundskron 
moved  noiselessly  about  the  house,  giving  the  necessary  direc 
tions  when  there  were  any  to  be  given,  occasionally  sitting  down 
in  a  quiet  corner  to  read  a  few  pages  of  a  devotional  book  she 
had  found.  More  than  once  she  went  to  the  different  rooms 
where  Greif  and  Rex  had  withdrawn,  to  see  whether  she  could 
be  of  any  use.  Greif  was  always  in  the  same  place,  leaning  back 
in  a  great  easy-chair,  pale  and  exhausted  with  grief,  but  evidently 
master  of  himself.  At  last  she  found  him  asleep,  and  she  drew 
a  long  breath  of  relief,  for  she  knew  that  the  chief  danger  was 
past.  When  she  went  to  Rex  she  found  him  reading,  and  he 
did  not  relinquish  his  occupation  during  the  whole  day,  so  far 
as  she  could  ascertain.  Whether  he  understood  what  he  read,  or 
not,  was  more  than  she  could  determine.  The  volume  contained 
a  part  of  Goethe's  works,  and  when  she  glanced  at  the  page  she 
saw  that  the  student  had  selected  the  second  part  of  Wilhelm 
Meister  for  his  reading.  He  always  looked  up  quietly  when  she 
entered,  thanked  her,  and  said  that  he  needed  nothing. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  could  not  rest.  The  sense  of  respon 
sibility  which  she  felt  might  alone  have  sufficed  to  sustain  her 
energy,  but  her  mind  was  disturbed  by  a  matter  even  weightier 
in  her  eyes.  The  tremendous  difficulties  of  the  future  presented 
themselves  very  clearly  to  her  mental  view,  and  she  knew  that 
before  long  they  would  not  be  mere  shadows  of  things  to  come, 
but  actual  problems  with  which  she  must  grapple,  and  upon  the 
solution  of  which  she  must  concentrate  all  her  strength.  To 
morrow,  or  the  next  day  at  the  latest,  the  earth  would  close  for 
ever  over  what  remained  of  those  poor  beings  whose  departure 
from  life  had  saddened  her  own  and  made  it  seem  so  hard  to 
understand.  But  when  the  three  were  buried,  she  could  no 
longer  remain  at  Greifenstein.  There  would  be  no  reason  for 
prolonging  her  stay,  even  had  she  wished  to  do  so,  and  indeed 
her  wishes  would  lead  her  homewards  as  soon  as  her  duties  were 
all  fulfilled.  She  had  never  before  been  separated  even  for  a 
day  from  her  child,  and  though  she  was  strong  and  sensible  in 


188  GREIFENSTEIN. 

mind  and  knew  that  Hilda  was  safe  with  old  Berbel,  she  was 
conscious  that  it  was  painful  to  be  away  from  her.  She  would 
therefore  return  to  Sigmundskron.  From  that  moment  her 
trouble  would  begin.  It  was  not  conceivable  that  Greif  should 
go  away  without  seeing  Hilda,  and  yet  there  were  many  reasons 
why  it  would  be  better  that  the  two  should  not  meet. 

She  had  foreseen  the  struggle  during  the  hours  of  the  night, 
but  it  had  not  then  appeared  so  formidable  as  now.  She  had 
then  thought  more  of  Greif,  and  it  had  not  seemed  impos 
sible  to  tell  him  frankly  what  she  felt.  As  she  reflected  upon 
what  must  be  done,  she  saw  that  Hilda  was  the  principal  figure 
in  the  situation,  and  she  realised  that  Hilda's  happiness  was 
infinitely  more  dear  to  her  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
She  hesitated,  and  for  some  time  she  told  herself  that  the  mar 
riage  must  take  place,  come  what  might. 

To  her,  all  that  had  happened  since  the  previous  evening  was 
shrouded  in  an  impenetrable  mystery.  Her  imagination  failed 
utterly  to  account  for  the  desperate  doings  of  which  the  horrible 
result  was  before  her.  She  could  have  understood  that  the  two 
brothers  might  have  quarrelled  on  meeting  after  so  many  years, 
and  that  in  a  moment  of  reckless  anger  they  should  have  shot 
each  other.  Clara  might  have  perished  in  the  struggle,  while 
endeavouring  to  part  them.  But  there  was  a  dreadful  appear 
ance  of  deliberate  intention  in  the  whole  tragedy  which  made 
such  a  hypothesis  untenable.  That  Clara  had  been  intentionally 
murdered,  she  could  not  doubt.  Greifenstein  might  have  slain 
her  in  a  fit  of  passion  and  might  have  taken  his  own  life  after 
wards,  but  this  could  not  account  for  Rieseneck's  suicide.  She 
could  have  believed  that  for  some  unknown  reason  Rieseneck 
had  killed  his  brother  and  Clara,  and  after  disposing  their  bodies 
as  they  were  found,  had  shot  himself.  But  the  examination 
proved  the  contrary.  It  was  plainly  evident  that  both  men  had 
died  in  their  chairs  by  the  weapons  found  in  their  own  hands. 
Rieseneck  had  written  to  his  son,  but  Greifenstein  had  not,  or, 
at  least,  if  he  had  written  anything  it  had  not  been  discovered. 
Rex  alone  could  know  the  secret,  therefore,  if  it  had  been  re 
vealed  at  all.  She  was  ignorant  that  in  Germany,  when  a  suicide 
has  been  committed,  the  law  has  a  right  to  see  whatever  letters 
were  last  written  by  the  deceased.  The  stamped  letter,  ad 
dressed  to  Rex,  had  attracted  her  attention,  and  she  had  taken 
it  from  the  table  with  the  intention  of  posting  it  the  next  day, 


GREIFENSTEIN.  189 

not  meaning  to  conceal  it,  but,  on  the  contrary,  to  send  it  with 
out  delay  to  its  destination.  The  legal  gentlemen,  courteous  to 
the  good  lady,  had  not  pressed  her  with  any  questions,  taking  it 
for  granted  that  if  she  had  found  any  letter  or  any  clue  to  an 
explanation  she  would  naturally  offer  it  at  once.  And  so  it 
chanced  that  Rex  alone  could  know  the  truth  if  any  one  knew 
it.  That  he  had  been  terribly  moved  by  what  he  had  read,  she 
had  seen  for  herself,  but  whether  the  letter  had  contained  a  full 
explanation  of  the  circumstances,  it  was  not  possible  to  judge. 
If  so,  it  was  more  than  probable,  she  thought,  that  Rex  would 
show  it  to  Greif  in  due  time,  and  that  when  the  first  shock  was 
over  the  contents  would  be  communicated  to  herself.  The  ques 
tion  was  whether  this  would  happen  before  Greif  saw  Hilda.  In 
spite  of  her  natural  repugnance  to  such  a  plan,  she  almost  re 
solved  to  ask  Rex  directly  whether  what  he  had  received  threw 
any  light  upon  the  situation.  If  she  could  know  why  those 
three  persons  were  dead  she  could  better  guide  her  course  in  the 
future. 

If  Greifenstein  had'been  a  murderer,  as  well  as  a  suicide,  his 
son  could  not  have  Hilda  for  his  wife.  It  was  Greif's  mis 
fortune,  and  the  baroness  gave  him  all  the  pity  she  could  spare 
from  her  own  child,  but  the  point  could  not  be  yielded.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  tried  to  think  it  over.  She  thought  of 
Hilda,  married  and  leaving  Sigmundskron  to  live  under  the 
very  roof  where  such  deeds  had  been  done,  and  the  mere  idea 
was  painful  and  repugnant.  Greif  was  wholly  innocent  of  all 
that  had  happened,  but  the  stain  was  upon  his  name,  and  the 
blood  of  his  father  was  in  his  veins.  Hilda's  children  would 
be  the  grandchildren  of  a  murderer.  Old  Greifenstein  had  not 
ended  his  days  in  a  shameful  prison,  merely  because  he  had 
found  courage  to  take  his  own  life  quickly.  But  if  he  had 
done  the  deed  he  was  a  common  murderer,  and  the  moral 
result  was  the  same,  whether  he  were  alive  or  dead ;  the 
indelible  disgrace  rested  upon  his  son,  and  would  brand  the 
lives  of  his  son's  sons  after  him.  Hilda  loved  Greif,  and  Greif 
loved  Hilda,  but  that  was  no  argument.  Better  that  Hilda 
should  drag  out  a  solitary  and  childless  existence  than  be  happy 
under  such  a  name ;  far  better  that  Greif  should  submit  to  half 
a  century  of  lonely  and  loveless  years,  than  get  children  whose 
names  should  perpetuate  the  remembrance  of  a  monstrous  crime. 
Hilda  would  suffer,  but  suffering  was  the  lot  of  mankind.  The 


190  GREIFENSTEIN. 

baroness  wondered  sadly  whether  her  daughter's  disappointment 
could  possibly  equal  what  she  herself  had  borne  on  that  day 
when  her  gallant  soldier-husband  had  been  shot  down  in  battle. 
Could  Hilda's  sorrow  be  like  her  own  ?  Even  if  it  were,  Hilda 
must  bear  it  rather  than  take  such  a  name  —  unless,  indeed, 
old  Greifenstein  had  been  innocent  of  his  wife's  death.  No  one 
could  know  that  except  Rex,  and  would  he  answer  her  question  ? 
In  her  horror  of  the  whole  situation  she  wished  that  she  might 
go  back  to  Sigmundskron  and  end  her  life  in  barely  decent 
poverty  with  Hilda,  and  never  again  think  of  the  marriage. 
But  her  rigid  sense  of  duty  reproached  her  for  such  a  thought, 
which  made  her  feel  as  though  she  were  trying  to  lay  down  the 
responsibility  that  had  fallen  to  her  lot.  Her  untiring  con 
science  took  up  the  burden  again,  to  bear  it  as  it  might. 

Rex  must  answer  her,  and  upon  his  answer  would  depend 
everything.  It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  question  him,  however, 
and  for  the  present  it  was  wholly  impossible.  She  must  meet 
Hilda  while  she  herself  was  yet  undecided,  so  that  it  seemed 
simplest  to  be  roughly  frank  with  the  girl,  to  tell  her  plainly 
what  had  happened,  what  was  known  and  the  extent  of  what 
no  one  knew,  showing  her  clearly  that  if  old  Greifenstein  should 
turn  out  to  have  been  guilty,  she  must  give  up  all  thought  of 
Greif  and  submit  to  her  poor  lot  with  the  best  grace  she  could. 
Greif  would  go  away  and  travel,  perhaps  for  several  years.  He 
would  find  interests  at  last,  which  might  help  him  to  forget  his 
darkened  youth.  Hilda  and  her  mother  would  live  as  they 
could,  and  when  the  mother  died  Sigmundskron  must  go  to  the 
hammer.  At  all  events  it  was  not  encumbered  with  debts,  and 
its  sale  would  leave  the  child  a  pittance  to  save  her  from  starva 
tion  ;  possibly  she  would  have  more  than  before,  but  Fran  von 
Sigmundskron  could  not  judge  of  that.  Possibly,  too,  Hilda's 
sixty-four  quarterings  would  help  her  to  gain  admittance  as  a 
lady-canoness  in  one  of  those  semi-religious  foundations,  reserved 
exclusively  for  the  old  nobility,  of  which  several  exist  in 
Germany. 

The  short  winter's  day  was  over  when  Frau  von  Sigmund 
skron  reached  this  stage  in  her  meditations.  Lights  were 
brought  to  the  room  where  she  was,  and  a  servant  came  to  ask 
her  what  she  would  eat.  She  scarcely  knew  what  she  answered, 
but  she  remembered  that  some  hours  had  passed  since  she  had 
been  to  see  Greif  or  Rex  and  she  roused  herself  to  go  upon  the 


GREIFENSTEIN.  191 

errand  of  inquiry.  In  the  corridor  she  was  met  by  another 
person  who  came  to  ask  about  the  dispositions  for  the  morrow, 
an  ominous  creature  in  black,  the  sight  of  whom  recalled  at 
once  the  hideous  realities  of  the  day,  from  which  her  mind  had 
wandered  in  her  anxiety  for  Hilda's  welfare.  She  gave  the 
necessary  directions  and  continued  upon  her  way. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Greif's  voice  as  she  knocked  cautiously  at 
the  door. 

As  soon  as  she  entered  she  saw  that  his  state  had  been  im 
proved  by  the  rest  he  had  taken.  His  eyes  were  quiet,  his 
colour  pale  but  natural,  his  manner  mournfully  calm.  In  the 
morning  she  had  feared  he  might  fall  into  a  delirious  fever. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  came  and  stood  beside  him.  He  was 
comforted  by  her  presence,  though  he  had  not  always  been  sure 
that  he  liked  her.  At  present,  he  knew  what  good  cause  he  had 
to  be  grateful  to  her  for  what  she  had  done,  and  he  felt  that 
she  was  his  only  relation  in  the  world,  the  only  woman  alive 
who  could  in  any  way  take  the  place  of  what  he  had  lost. 
If  he  had  not  been  very  fond  of  her  before,  it  was  because  he 
had  not  understood  her,  and  because  in  his  eyes  her  personality 
was  entirely  eclipsed  by  Hilda's.  He  put  out  his  hand  and 
took  hers,  and  pressed  it  gently. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  he  said.     "  I  am  glad  you  have  come." 

She  sat  down  beside  his  easy-chair  and  gazed  into  the  fire. 
There  was  no  light  in  the  room  save  that  of  the  pine  logs,  blaz 
ing  in  the  great  chimney.  Her  reflexions  of  ten  minutes  earlier 
seemed  very  far  away,  for  the  sight  of  him  and  the  sound  of  his 
voice  had  suddenly  recalled  those  hopes  for  Hilda  from  which 
she  had  got  so  much  happiness. 

"  You  have  slept,"  she  said.  "  I  am  glad,  for  you  needed 
rest." 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  there  was  a  pause  before 
she  spoke  again,  during  which  Greif  did  not  move.  Uncon 
sciously  he  had  taken  the  manner  of  one  ill,  and  lay  back  in  his 
seat,  his  eyes  half  closed,  his  hands  resting  upon  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  making  no  effort  and  only  hoping  that  none  would  be 
required  of  him. 

"  Dear  Greif,"  said  the  baroness  at  last,  "  you  will  go  away, 
will  you  not  ?  " 

He  started  a  little  and  his  expression  changed,  as  though  the 
question  pained  him. 


192  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.     "  I  will  go  away  —  when  it  is  over." 

"  Shall  it  be  to-morrow,  then  ? "  asked  Frau  von  Sigmund- 
skron  very  softly. 

"  Yes.  To-morrow  morning.  I  would  it  were  to-night.  And 
then  — "  he  stopped  and  passed  his  hand  wearily  across  his 
forehead,  letting  it  drop  nerveless  by  his  side  almost  immedi 
ately. 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"  Then  I  must  see  Hilda  before  I  go."  His  eyelids  quivered, 
and  his  lips  shut  themselves  closely. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  baroness  in  a  tone  of  hesitation. 

"Yes,  I  must  see  Hilda,"  Greif  repeated.  "  And  when  I  am 
gone  —  then  —  then  — 

This  time  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  said  nothing,  for  she  saw 
that  he  was  suffering,  though  she  dared  not  guess  what  was 
passing  in  his  mind.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  speak. 

"  When  I  am  gone  —  "  he  began,  but  the  words  died  on  his 
lips. 

"  Do  not  talk  of  this  now,  dear  Greif." 

He  roused  himself  and  sat  straight  in  his  chair.  There  was 
something  of  his  father's  look  in  his  face,  and  his  companion 
noticed  that  his  fingers  were  strained  as  he  grasped  the  carved 
wood  in  the  effort  to  steady  himself. 

"  I  must  say  it  now,"  he  answered  firmly.  "  To-morrow  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  talk  much,  and  it  may  happen  that  we 
shall  never  have  another  opportunity." 

"  Never  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  never.  It  is  to  be  good-bye.  You  must  find 
another  husband  for  Hilda,  for  I  may  not  come  back.  That  is 
what  I  wanted  to  say." 

The  baroness  turned  a  startled  look  upon  him  and  leant  for 
wards  toward  him  from  her  seat.  She  had  not  expected  such  a 
turn  in  the  drama. 

"  You  do  not  suppose  that  I,  an  honourable  man,  would 
expect  you  to  give  your  daughter  to  the  son  of  a  murderer  ?  " 

The  question  was  put  so  sharply  and  concisely  that  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron  was  taken  unawares.  The  thought  had  been 
painful  enough  when  it  had  passed  unspoken  through  the  con 
fusion  of  her  reflexions,  but  Greif's  statement  gave  it  a  new  and 
horrible  vividness.  With  a  single  sharp  sob,  she  hid  her  face 


GREIFENSTEIN.  193 

in  her  hands,  and  Greif  saw  that  they  trembled.  His  own 
heart  was  beating  violently,  for  he  had  nerved  himself  to  make 
the  effort,  but  he  had  not  anticipated  the  reaction  that  fol 
lowed  closely  upon  it.  He  felt  as  though,  in  pronouncing 
the  detested  word,  he  had  struck  his  father's  dead  face  with  his 
hand. 

"  God  knows  how  I  loved  him,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 
"  But  he  did  the  deed." 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  did  not  distinguish  the  words  he 
spoke,  but  she  felt  that  she  must  say  something.  Her  hands 
dropped  from  her  strained  and  tearless  eyes  and  fell  upon  her 
knees. 

"  Oh,  Greif !  Greif !  "  she  almost  moaned,  as  she  stared  at  the 
blazing  logs. 

"  That  is  what  it  comes  to  in  the  end,"  he  answered,  sum 
moning  all  his  courage.  "  I  cannot  marry  Hilda.  It  was  bad 
enough  to  be  half  disgraced  by  my  father's  brother  —  you  were 
kind  enough  to  set  that  aside.  It  is  worse  now,  for  the  stain  is 
on  the  name  itself.  I  cannot  give  it  to  Hilda.  Would  you 
have  her  called  Greifenstein  ?  " 

The  baroness  could  not  speak.  Half  an  hour  earlier  she 
would  not  have  dared  to  hope  that  Greif  would  himself  re 
nounce  her  daughter,  but  it  was  different  now.  She  could  not 
look  upon  his  agonised  face,  and  listen  to  the  tones  that  came 
from  his  tortured  heart,  as  he  gave  up  all  he  held  dear  for  the 
sake  of  acting  honourably,  she  could  not  see  his  suffering  and 
hear  his  words,  and  yet  brutally  admit  that  he  was  right,  and 
that  his  sacrifice  was  a  necessity.  And  yet  her  own  conscience 
told  her  that  her  first  thought  must  be  for  her  own  child,  and 
not  for  him.  She  stared  at  the  fire  and  answered  nothing. 

"Would  you  have  her  write  her  name  'Hilda  von  Greifen 
stein'?"  he  asked,  forcing  the  words  sternly  from  his  lips. 
"  Would  you  have  her  angel  purity  darkened  with  the  blood 
that  is  on  my  house?  " 

"  But  you,  Greif  —  what  will  become  of  you  ?  " 

"It  matters  little  enough,  so  that  I  do  no  harm  to  those  I 
love,"  he  answered. 

"  It  does  matter,"  said  the  baroness  gently.  "  It  is  not  right 
or  just  that  an  innocent  man  should  suffer  for  the  deeds  of 
others." 


194  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"It  is  right  that  he  should  suffer  anything,  rather  than  injure 
those  who  are  not  only  innocent  but  free  from  inherited  re 
proach." 

There  was  a  sudden  energy  in  his  manner  which  surprised 
his  companion.  His  white  face  was  illuminated  by  a  sort  of 
radiance  from  within,  his  voice  was  full  and  firm,  the  glance 
of  his  eyes  piercing  and  determined. 

"It  is  right,"  he  continued,  "and  I  will  do  it,  come  what 
may.  Indeed  I  must,  for  in  spite  of  your  kind  heart  and  words 
you  would  not  give  her  to  me.  But  even  if  you  would,  I  would 
not  take  her,  I  would  not  make  her  the  mother  of  more  Greif- 
ensteins.  Ay  —  you  look  at  me  —  I  love  her  too  much.  That 
is  the  reason.  If  I  loved  her  less  —  oh,  then,  I  would  take  her. 
I  would  take  my  beautiful  Hilda  for  my  own  sake,  and  in  her 
love  I  would  try  and  forget  the  horrors  of  my  younger  years. 
I  would  forget,  for  my  own  sake,  that  my  father  was  a  mur 
derer  and  a  suicide,  my  father's  brother  a  shameful  traitor, 
myself  a  man  clothed  in  the  infamy  of  others,  until  the  world 
can  hardly  distinguish  between  my  innocence  and  their  guilt. 
I  could  live  with  Hilda,  somewhere  in  this  lonely  forest,  and 
with  her  I  might  bury  memory  and  talk  lightly  of  love  beside 
its  very  grave.  And  Hilda  would  be  willing,  too,  and  if  I  did 
not  love  her  as  I  do,  I  would  take  her  —  whether  you  would  let 
her  go  or  not  —  no,  forgive  me  —  I  should  not  speak  so  to  you, 
who  are  the  best  of  women  —  but  you  would  consent,  for  you 
are  so  kind.  But  the  thing  is  impossible.  She  would  re 
member,  and  I  should  remember  also,  when  our  sons  grew  up 
and  had  to  meet  the  world  with  the  brand  of  our  name  upon 
their  faces.  Look  at  Rex.  He  is  my  best  friend.  Yesterday 
I  learnt  that  he  is  my  cousin.  Even  he  has  hidden  his  father's 
deeds  under  a  common,  meaningless  name.  How  much  more 
should  I  hide  my  head !  How  much  less  right  have  I,  than  he 
had  yesterday,  to  make  an  innocent  girl,  or  any  woman,  the 
wife  of  a  Greifenstein  !  No  —  go  to  Hilda,  tell  her  the  truth, 
let  me  see  her  once,  and  I  will  rid  you  of  myself  when  I  have 
said  good-bye.  You  are  her  mother,  and  you  alone  can  tell  her 
all  —  all  except  the  last  word,  and  when  I  have  spoken  that 
word,  I  will  go  away,  Ilex  and  I  together,  and  you  will  not.  hear 
of  me  any  more." 

Greif  ceased  speaking.  He  had  risen  from  his  chair  to  pace  the 
room  while  he  spoke  and  he  now  stood  with  folded  arms  before 


GREIFENSTEEST.  195 

the  baroness,  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers  as  though  waiting  for  her 
answer.  He  was  very  young,  and  it  was  perhaps  the  first  time 
in  his  life  that  he  had  spoken  out  before  any  one.  He  was  too 
much  excited  to  think  whether  his  speech  would  sound  theat 
rical  and  exaggerated  or  not.  He  meant  every  word  of  what 
he  had  said,  and  that  was  enough  for  him.  He  meant  to  do 
what  was  right  and  honourable,  and  that  is  enough  for  any  man. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron's  gentle  eyes  fell  before  his  fixed 
gaze.  Feeling  as  she  did,  and  remembering  what  she  had  felt 
when  she  had  come  to  him,  she  was  ashamed  to  meet  his  earnest 
glance.  There  were  few  better  women  in  the  world,  few  whose 
goodness  showed  itself  so  clearly  both  in  deeds  and  intentions, 
and  yet  she  was  conscious,  rightly  or  wrongly,  that  Greif  was 
outdoing  her  in  generosity.  To  her  the  words  he  had  spoken 
had  a  ring  of  heroism  in  them,  and  he  himself  seemed  to  grow 
in  dignity  and  strength  as  he  stood  before  her.  She  hesitated, 
the  speech  came  to  her  lips,  failed,  took  courage  and  came  again. 
Once  more  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  Greif  —  you  are  a  brave  man,  and  you  will  understand  me," 
she  said.  "  When  I  came  here,  I  felt  all  that  you  have  said.  I 
felt  it  in  the  long  night,  before  you  were  in  the  house.  I  meant 
to  tell  you  what  you  have  told  me,  as  kindly  as  I  could,  not  now, 
but  later.  It  would  have  been  hard,  for  I  am  more  than  fond 
of  you." 

"  It  would  have  been  your  duty,  and  it  would  have  been 
right,"  answered  Greif  calmly. 

The  baroness  laid  her  hand  upon  his  folded  arms. 

"It  would  not  have  been  right,  Greif,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice  that  trembled  a  little.  "  It  might  have  seemed  so,  for  I 
did  not  know  you  as  I  know  you  now.  You  have  done  all  that 
a  man  can  do,  more,  perhaps,  than  almost  any  man  would  have 
done.  I  did  not  wrong  you  in  what  I  felt,  nor  in  what  I  meant 
to  say,  but  I  could  never  say  it  now.  Take  Hilda,  and  call 
yourself  as  you  will,  for  you  are  worthy  of  her  and  neither  you 
nor  she  will  ever  regret  it." 

Greif  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  knelt  beside  her 
and  kissed  her  hands. 

"You  will,"  she  said,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  cannot,"  he  answered,  in  heartbroken  accents.  Then, 
rising,  he  stood  and  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece  and 
bowed  his  head  against  the  carved  wood. 


196  GREIFENSTEIN. 

He  could  not  feel  as  she  did,  and  his  nature  was  incapable  of 
such  a  sudden  revulsion  as  had  taken  place  in  her  heart.  He 
knew  how  bravely  generous  she  had  been,  but  her  kindness 
changed  nothing  in  the  situation,  beyond  awakening  in  him  a 
sense  of  heartfelt  gratitude  for  which  he  had  expected  no  such 
cause  as  she  had  given.  The  fear  of  doing  an  injury  to  Hilda 
was  still  foremost  in  his  mind.  He  had  said  that  even  if  her 
mother  would  consent,  he  would  not  take  her,  and  what  he  felt 
when  that  consent  was  so  unexpectedly  thrust  upon  him  was  a 
measure  of  his  earnestness. 

"Nothing  is  spared  me,"  he  said,  almost  under  his  breath. 
"  Not  even  your  generosity  !  " 

His  action  was  to  depend  wholly  upon  his  own  free  will,  and 
he  knew  that  it  would  have  been  far  easier  to  renounce  his  love 
if  Hilda's  mother  had  helped  him  with  her  opposition.  Thei'e 
she  sat,  offering  him  what  he  must  not  take,  thrusting  upon 
him  that  which  his  whole  nature  craved,  and  which  his  honour 
alone  bid  him  refuse.  Her  sweet  voice  sounded  like  the  soft 
music  of  temptation. 

"  Do  not  say  so,  Greif,"  she  said.  "  Remember  that  you  are 
wholly  innocent,  and  that  Hilda  loves  you  with  all  her  heart 
and  soul.  Why  must  you  force  yourself  to  do  what  will  make 
her  and  me  so  unspeakably  wretched  ?  After  all  —  I  take  the 
most  worldly  argument  —  it  is  for  her  and  for  me  to  decide. 
You  have  concealed  nothing,  and  I  know  all,  and  if  I  say  that 
your  goodness  and  your  heroism  outweigh  the  rest,  should  you 
not  be  satisfied?  And  besides,  you  are  young.  You  do  not 
know  how  very  quickly  the  world  forgets.  A  score  of  years 
hence,  who  will  remember  the  evil  deeds  of  last  night  ?  They 
were  not  even  done  in  a  city,  those  who  did  them  had  hardly 
any  acquaintances,  and  perhaps  no  friends.  You  yourself  are 
not  old  enough  to  be  known  to  many,  and  you  can  live  here 
until  your  children  are  grown  up.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  was 
wrong  even  to  have  thought  of  separating  you  two,  wholly 
wrong  and  mistaken,  and  that  I  ought  to  ask  your  forgiveness 
for  my  intention." 

Thus  she  pleaded  the  cause  of  his  own  heart,  giving  many 
and  good  reasons  why  he  should  yield,  while  he  stood  struggling 
with  himself  and  wishing  that  he  could  stop  his  ears  against 
her  persuasion.  To  him  the  horror  was  more  vivid  than  to  her, 


GREIFENSTEIN.  197 

and  she  could  not  understand  his  dread  of  associating  Hilda 
with  the  curse  that  had  fallen  upon  his  house. 

"  I  cannot,"  he  said  firmly,  when  she  had  ceased  speaking. 

She  rose  and  stood  beside  him. 

"  Think  of  it,  Greif,"  she  answered.  "  You  must  not  break 
her  heart  for  a  scruple  of  honour." 

Then  she  went  out  softly,  wondering  at  herself,  but  sure  that 
she  had  done  the  best. 


198  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

FRAU  VON  SIGMUXDSKRON  was  too  conscientious  a  person  to 
omit  a  mental  review  of  what  had  passed.  She  knew,  indeed, 
that  she  had  acted  kindly  and  generously,  if  not  wisely,  and  she 
believed  that  in  some  cases  kindness  might  be  better  than  wis 
dom.  She  was  struck  by  one  point  in  Greif's  language.  He 
assumed  as  a  certainty  that  old  Greifenstein  had  killed  Clara, 
whereas  the  baroness  had  been  inclined  to  attribute  the  crime 
to  Rieseneck  alone.  At  first  she  did  not  understand  Greif's 
readiness  to  believe  that  this  evil  deed  had  been  his  father's, 
but  presently,  as  she  thought  over  the  whole  matter,  it  struck 
her  that  she  had  no  reason  for  acquitting  the  one  rather  than 
the  other,  so  far  as  evidence  was  concerned,  but  that  she  had 
wished  Greif's  father  innocent  for  Greif's  own  sake.  The 
good  lady  was  much  disturbed  on  finding  that  her  wishes  had 
been  strong  enough  to  bias  her  mental  view  without  her  knowl 
edge,  and  she  grew  more  and  more  satisfied  with  the  course  she 
had  pursued  after  Greif  had  spoken.  She  saw  clearly,  now,  that 
Greif  was  indispensable  to  her  for  Hilda's  happiness,  and  she 
comprehended  that  he  was  worthy  of  the  girl. 

In  the  wicked  world  which  surrounded  the  Black  Forest  on  all 
sides,  persons  would  have  been  found  malicious  enough  to  sus 
pect  that  Greif  really  wished  to  be  free  from  his  engagement 
with  Hilda.  He  himself,  had  he  been  less  excited,  would  have 
hesitated  before  speaking  as  he  had  done,  lest  such  a  motive 
should  be  attributed  to  him.  He  would  have  acted  and  talked 
with  more  diplomacy  and  less  outward  energy,  though  with  the 
same  inward  conviction,  and  it  is  by  no  means  impossible  that 
Frau  von  Sigmundskron's  first  intention  might  in  such  a  case 
have  remained  unchanged,  and  that  she  would  have  gently 
acquiesced  in  Greif's  proposal  to  give  up  the  marriage.  But 
there  was  no  guile  in  the  baroness,  and  but  little  in  Greif 
himself.  He  had  been  carried  away  in  his  speech  by  the  sin 
cerity  of  what  he  felt,  the  more  easily  because  his  whole  nature 


GREIFENSTEIN.  199 

was  unstrung  by  grief;  and  Hilda's  mother  had  seen  in  him 
only  the  hero,  ready  to  sacrifice  everything  for  her  he  loved,  and 
womanlike,  she  had  felt  irresistibly  impelled  to  reward  him  on 
the  spot  by  a  generous  sacrifice  of  those  convictions  which  his 
real  or  fancied  eloquence  had  already  destroyed.  So  simple  was 
she,  that  it  did  not  strike  her  that  Greif's  own  position  was 
changed,  that  he  was  all  at  once  his  own  master,  possessed  of  a 
large  fortune  and  perhaps  of  tastes  which  he  had  concealed  dur 
ing  his  father's  life.  If  the  aforesaid  wicked  world  had  been 
acquainted  with  the  circumstances,  it  would  assuredly  have  taken 
this  view  into  consideration.  But  that  portion  of  mankind  in 
which  are  included  so  many  of  our  acquaintance,  but  in  whose 
numbers  we  ourselves  are  never  found,  were  very  far  from  Greif- 
enstein,  and  the  Lady  of  Sigmundskron  knew  little  of  their  modes 
of  thought.  She  saw  that  Greif  was  honest  and  she  sought  no 
malicious  explanation  of  his  intentions.  On  the  contrary,  the 
longer  she  reflected  upon  the  interview,  the  more  she  admired 
him,  and  strange  to  say,  the  nearer  she  came  to  accepting  his 
opinion  of  his  father's  guilt. 

She  had  meant  to  see  Rex,  and  she  had  not  been  altogether 
decided  to  wait  and  allow  the  natural  course  of  events  to  bring 
her  the  information  she  desired  about  his  letter.  She  remem 
bered  with  some  surprise  that  her  decision  in  the  matter  of  the 
marriage  was  to  have  depended  upon  the  knowledge  of  old 
Greifenstein's  culpability  or  innocence  which  she  had  hoped  to 
gain  from  Rex.  It  was  evident  that  her  mind  was  tired,  and 
she  resolved  at  last  to  rest.  It  was  her  duty,  however,  to  see 
Rex  before  sleeping,  if  only  to  inquire  about  his  state.  She 
would  certainly  not  ask  him  any  questions. 

She  found  him  reading  still,  or  pretending  to  read,  by  the  light 
of  a  shaded  student's  lamp.  Upon  another  table  there  was  a 
tray  with  a  couple  of  covered  dishes  upon  it.  His  older  and 
tougher  nature  showed  itself  there,  she  thought,  for  he  must 
have  given  the  order  himself.  He  rose  politely  as  she  entered, 
and  offered  her  a  chair.  His  manner  contrasted  so  strongly 
with  Greif's,  as  to  make  her  wonder  whether  he  were  in  reality 
much  affected  or  not. 

"I  will  not  stay,"  she  said.  "I  only  came  to  see  how  you 
were,  and  whether  I  could  do  anything  for  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind.  I  have  all  I  need,  and  more.  Have  you 
seen  Greif?" 


200  GEEIFENSTEI2ST. 

"  Yes.  He  has  slept  and  I  think  he  is  safe.  At  first  I  feared 
lest  his  mind  should  be  affected.  He  is  younger  than  you,  Herr 
von  —  Herr  Ilex  —  and  perhaps  he  is  more  sensitive." 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  Rex  thoughtfully.  "  Would  he  care  to 
see  me?  " 

"I  have  no  doubt  —  that  is  —  he  may  possibly  be  tired  — " 
she  hesitated. 

Rex's  stony  eyes  examined  her  face  attentively. 

"  You  have  had  an  interview  with  him,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
conviction,  "and  you  have  talked  about  this  dreadful  matter.  I 
have  a  communication  to  make  to  you,  Frau  von  Sigmundskron. 
It  will  not  take  long." 

The  baroness  started  and  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  You  gave  me  a  letter  this  morning.  I  will  tell  you  frankly 
that  you  ought  to  have  given  it  to  the  representatives  of  the 
law,  for  in  such  cases  the  law  has  a  right  to  all  letters  of  the 
deceased  and  can  even  cause  them  to  be  intercepted  in  the  post- 
office." 

"  I  did  not  know,"  she  replied,  in  some  perturbation. 

"  I  did,  but  as  no  one  asked  me  for  the  letter,  I  did  not  offer 
it.  I  cannot  tell  you  all  it  contained,  nor  shall  I  tell  Greif.  But 
this  I  will  tell  you.  My  father  arrived  here  last  night,  and 
almost  immediately  afterwards  he  and  Herr  von  Greifenstein, 
jointly,  killed  Frau  von  Greifenstein,  and  then  committed 
suicide." 

"  Is  there  no  doubt  ?  "  asked  the  baroness  nervously.  She 
turned  white  at  the  thought  of  the  scene  his  words  recalled. 

"  The  last  confessions  of  men  about  to  die  are  generally  trust 
worthy,"  remarked  Rex  rather  drily. 

"  Of  course  —  of  course."  She  wondered  what  other  com 
munication  the  letter  had  contained. 

"  Exactly,  and  you  may  rely  upon  the  exactness  of  what  I 
tell  you.  My  poor  father  had  no  reason  for  deceiving  me,  nor 
was  he  a  man  to  deceive  any  one.  He  had  been  a  fanatic  and 
an  enthusiast  in  his  youth,  and  if  his  fanaticism  led  him  too 
far,  he  paid  the  penalty  in  forty  years  of  exile." 

"  But  what  could  have  induced  him  —  or  Greifenstein  —  " 

"Madam,"  said  Rex  courteously,  but  firmly,  "I  regret  my  in 
ability  to  answer  your  question.  It  must  be  supposed  that  two 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  201 

such  men  had  some  cause  for  acting  as  they  did,  which  seemed 
to  them  sufficient." 

"  Forgive  me !  "  exclaimed  the  baroness.  "  I  did  not  mean  to 
ask  you.  I  thank  you  for  having  told  me  what  you  have.  Am 
I  to  tell  Greif  ?  I  think  —  indeed  I  know  that  what  he  believes 
coincides  with  your  account." 

"  Then  you  had  better  say  nothing.  I  could  not  show  him 
the  letter,  and  if  he  knew  that  there  was  one,  he  might  natu 
rally  enough  reproach  me  with  a  want  of  confidence  in  him.  I 
should  be  sorry  to  be  placed  in  such  a  position,  at  such  a  time." 

For  a  few  moments  neither  spoke.  The  baroness  was  formu 
lating  another  question,  which  must  be  put  to  her  companion. 

"  Herr  Rex,"  she  said  at  last,  "it  is  necessary  that  the  last 
act  of  this  tragedy  should  be  completed  to-morrow.  You  have 
a  voice  in  the  matter  —  "  she  hesitated. 

"  AVhatever  you  do  will  be  well  done,"  answered  Rex.  He 
seemed  to  think  the  question  over  quickly.  "  If  you  have  any 
objections  to  his  resting  here,"  he  said  presently,  "  I  will  take 
him  away.  Do  not  let  any  feeling  of  delicacy  prevent  you  from 
being  frank." 

"  Let  them  lie  together,"  replied  Frau  von  Sigmundskron. 
"  It  would  be  Greif's  wish.  You  are  very  thoughtful,  Herr  Rex, 
but  you  must  not  think  that  any  such  unkind  feeling  can  exist 
any  longer  now.  Though  there  is  no  real  tie  of  blood,  you  are 
one  of  us.  You  and  Greif  should  be  as  brothers." 

A  momentary  light  flashed  in  Rex's  impenetrable  eyes. 

"I  will  be  a  brother  to  him,  if  he  will  let  me,"  he  answered 
steadily.  "  I  thank  you  very  much  for  what  you  have  done  and 
for  what  you  say." 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  bade  him  good-night  and  went  away. 
She  was  a  woman,  and  her  curiosity  was  strong,  though  her 
conscience  was  stronger.  She  felt  that  she  was  in  the  presence 
of  some  extraordinary  mystery,  and  that  Rex  himself  was  a 
somewhat  mysterious  personage.  His  eyes  haunted  her  and 
disturbed  her  peace,  and  yet  she  could  not  deny  that  she  was 
attracted  by  him.  His  quiet  dignity  pleased  her,  as  well  as  the 
tone  of  his  voice.  She  liked  his  face  and  its  expression,  and 
her  deep-rooted  prejudices  of  caste  were  satisfied,  for  she  recog 
nised  in  him  a  man  essentially  of  her  own  class.  There  was 
something  very  manly,  too,  about  his  bearing,  which  could  not 


202  GREIFENSTEIN. 

fail  to  impress  a  womanly  woman,  no  matter  of  what  age.  But 
his  eyes  followed  her  and  seemed  to  stare  stonily  at  her  out  of 
the  dark  corners  of  the  room.  She  was  too  much  exhausted, 
however,  to  resist  very  long  the  oppression  of  sleep  that  came 
over  her,  and  she  was  far  too  tired  to  dream,  or  at  least  to  be 
conscious  of  dreaming. 

With  the  following  morning  came  the  last  trial  of  her 
strength,  and  those  who  saw  her  wondered  how  a  thin,  pale 
woman,  whose  hair  was  already  white,  could  show  such  constant 
energy,  forethought  and  endurance.  She  had  led  a  hard  life, 
however,  harder  than  any  one  there  suspected,  and  she  could 
have  borne  even  more  than  was  thrust  upon  her,  without  flinch 
ing  or  bending  under  the  burden.  On  foot  she  walked  in  the 
mournful  procession  through  the  snow  and  the  bitter  wind, 
leaning  but  lightly  on  Greif's  arm,  and  sometimes  feeling  that 
she  was  helping  him  rather  than  accepting  his  assistance.  It 
was  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  castle  to  the  spot  where 
the  burial-place  of  the  Greifensteins  was  built  in  the  depth  of 
the  forest,  and  the  road  was  bad  in  many  parts,  though  an  at 
tempt  had  been  made  to  clear  it,  and  the  footsteps  of  those  who 
bore  the  dead  smoothed  the  path  for  the  living  who  came  after. 

At  last  it  was  over.  The  last  short  prayer  was  said.  The 
great  stone  slab,  green  with  the  mould  of  centuries,  was  raised 
by  twenty  strong  arms  and  made  to  slide  back  into  its  place 
above  the  yawning  steps  that  led  down  into  the  earth,  the  heavy 
doors  of  the  mausoleum  swung  slowly  upon  their  hinges,  the 
huge,  rusty  lock  was  secured  and  the  unwieldly  key  was  solemnly 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  new  master  of  Greifenstein.  With 
slow  steps,  two  and  two  together,  all  wTent  back  through  the 
dim  shadows  of  the  trees,  while  the  icy  wind  whistled  and 
roared  upon  them  from  every  giant  stem,  and  the  trodden  snow 
creaked  beneath  their  feet.  Two  and  two  they  re-entered  the 
low  gateway  of  the  castle,  till  the  iron-studded  oak  clanged 
behind  the  last  pair,  sending  rolling  echoes  along  the  dark, 
vaulted  way. 

An  hour  later  Greif  and  Rex  sat  together  in  sad  silence 
before  the  big  blazing  logs  in  Greif's  room,  faintly  conscious 
of  the  comforting  warmth,  looking  at  each  other  from  time  to 
time  without  speaking,  each  absorbed  by  the  pain  of  his  own 
thoughts.  Tt  seemed  as  though  several  hours  had  passed  in 
this  way  when  Greif  at  last  broke  the  silence. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  203 

"  I  will  ride  to  Sigmundskron  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "  and  then 
we  will  go  away." 

Rex  looked  at  him,  nodded  gravely  and  answered  nothing. 

"  We  must  go  together,  Rex,"  said  Greif  after  another  long 
pause.  "  Will  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  with  you  wherever  you  will.  If  we  part  it  shall 
not  be  my  fault." 

"  Thank  you." 

The  great  logs  crackled  and  blazed,  sending  up  leaping  flames 
and  showers  of  sparks  into  the  wide  chimney  and  reflecting  a 
warm  red  glare  which  contrasted  oddly  with  the  cold  and  sun 
less  light  of  the  winter's  afternoon.  The  sound  and  the  sight 
of  the  fire  supplied  the  place  of  conversation  and  animated  the 
stillness. 

"  Rex,  did  you  know  that  I  was  to  have  been  married  next 
month?"  Greif  asked  the  question  suddenly,  as  though  he  had 
come  to  an  unexpected  decision. 

"  I  thought  it  possible  that  you  would  marry  soon,"  answered 
his  companion. 

"  I  was  to  have  been  married  to  my  cousin  Hilda  in  January. 
How  far  away  that  seems  !  " 

"  The  daughter  of  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  ?  " 

"  Yes.     We  have  been  engaged  for  years." 

"  And  you  are  going  to  Sigmundskron  to  see  her  —  to  tell 
her  —  " 

"  That  it  is  all  over."     Greif  completed  the  sentence. 

Rex  rested  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  leaned  forward,  star 
ing  at  the  fire.  He  knew  what  Greif  meant  without  any  further 
explanation,  and  he  realised  how  much  more  his  cousin  would 
stand  in  need  of  comfort  than  before.  But  his  active  and  far- 
sighted  intelligence  did  not  accept  the  necessity  of  breaking  off 
the  marriage.  He  approved  of  Greif's  wish  to  do  so,  and  ad 
mired  his  courage,  but  at  the  same  time  he  saw  the  utter  deso 
lation  and  gloominess  of  the  life  in  store  for  him  if  he  persisted 
in  his  intention.  He  held  his  peace,  however. 

"You  see  that  I  could  not  do  otherwise,"  Greif  said  at  last. 
Still  Rex  answered  nothing,  and  stared  persistently  into  the 
flames,  though  his  cousin  was  looking  at  him. 

"  Would  you,"  continued  Greif,  "  if  you  were  in  my  place,  have 
the  courage  to  offer  such  a  name  as  mine  to  an  innocent  girl?" 

"  You  are  as  innocent  as  she,"  observed  Rex. 


204  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  Personally,  but  that  is  not  the  question.  Would  you  bring 
her  here  to  live  in  this  house,  to  be  a  part  of  all  the  evil  that 
has  befallen  me  and  mine  ?  " 

"  You  can  live  where  you  please,"  said  Rex  philosophically. 
"  And  besides,  by  a  very  simple  process  of  law  you  can  call 
yourself  by  another  name.  Do  away  with  the  name  and  live  in 
another  place,  and  you  are  simply  Greif  and  she  is  simply 
Hilda.  There  could  be  no  question  of  doing  her  an  injury. 
Names  are  foolish  distinctions  at  best,  and  when  there  is  any 
thing  wrong  with  them  it  is  foolish  not  to  get  rid  of  them  at 
once.  Do  you  think  that  I  would  not  marry  as  plain  Herr  Rex, 
though  I  am  in  reality  the  high  and  well-born  Horst  von  Riese- 
neck?  I  have  but  to  make  application  for  a  legal  change,  pay 
the  costs  and  the  thing  is  done." 

"  Outwardly,  it  is  true.  But  the  fact  would  remain.  You  are 
Rieseneck  and  I  am  Greifenstein,  for  all  our  lives,  and  our  chil 
dren  will  be  Riesenecks  and  Greif ensteins  after  us,  if  we  marry. 
I  would  not  lay  such  a  curse  upon  any  woman,  much  less  upon 
one  I  love." 

"  A  curse  is  a  purely  conventional  term,  having  no  real  mean 
ing  in  life,"  replied  Rex.  "  The  reality  is  you  yourself,  your 
love  and  her  love,  whether  you  be  the  Emperor  or  Ilerr  Schmidt. 
At  least  that  is  all  the  reality  which  can  ever  affect  either  of 
you,  so  far  as  marriage  is  concerned.  I  do  not  say  that  your 
name,  or  mine,  would  not  be  a  disadvantage  if  we  were  ambi 
tious  men  and  if  we  wanted  to  be  statesmen  or  officers.  But  I 
do  assert  that  no  sensible  person  will  blame  you  or  me  for 
marrying  happily  if  we  have  the  opportunity,  merely  because 
our  fathers  did  evil  in  their  day." 

Greif  listened  attentively,  but  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  strange  that  you  should  not  think  as  I  do  about  this," 
he  answered.  "  We  think  alike  about  most  things.  But  you 
need  not  try  to  persuade  me  against  my  will.  I  will  not  yield." 

"  Will  you  take  my  advice  about  a  smaller  matter  ?  " 

"If  I  can." 

"  Then  listen  to  me.  Do  not  be  hasty.  If  you  must  see 
Fraulein  von  Sigmundskron  to-morrow,  do  not  let  your  parting 
be  final.  You  may  regret  it  all  your  life." 

"  What  would  my  regret  be,  compared  with  hers,  if  in  the 
course  of  time  she  realised  that  she  had  done  wrong  in  taking 
my  name  ?  " 


GREIFENSTEIN.  205 

"  Are  there  any  men  of  her  family  alive  ?  "  asked  Rex.  "  Is 
there  any  other  branch  ?  " 

"  No  —  if  there  were,  they  would  never  allow  the  marriage, 
even  if  I  wished  it." 

"  I  did  not  ask  for  that  reason.  If  she  is  alone  in  the  world, 
take  her  name.  Call  yourself  Greif  von  Sigmundskron ,  and 
revive  an  ancient  race  without  letting  your  own  die  out." 

Greif  was  silent.  It  had  not  struck  him  that  such  an  arrange 
ment  might  be  possible,  but  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  Rex  had 
dealt  a  telling  blow  against  his  resolution.  To  have  married 
Hilda  as  Greif enstein  would  have  always  remained  out  of  the 
question,  to  have  chosen  a  common  and  meaningless  appellation 
would  have  seemed  an  insult  to  her,  but  the  idea  suggested  by 
Rex  was  alluring  in  the  extreme.  He  knew  how  bitterly  both 
Hilda  and  her  mother  regretted  the  extinction  of  their  family 
and  how  gladly  they  would  welcome  such  a  proposal.  By  one 
stroke  of  the  pen  Greifenstein  and  its  memories  would  be 
detached  from  his  future  life,  and  there  would  be  something  in 
their  place,  a  name  to  make  honourable,  a  home  in  which  to 
plant  new  associations  —  above  all  there  would  be  the  love,  the 
pride,  the  happiness  of  Hilda  herself.  He  felt  that  his  determi 
nation  was  weakened,  and  he  made  a  final  effort  not  to  yield, 
scarcely  knowing  why  he  resisted  any  longer,  since  the  possi 
bilities  of  the  future  had  grown  so  suddenly  bright.  Rex  saw 
at  a  glance  that  he  had  made  a  deep  impression  upon  his  cousin, 
and  wisely  left  the  remedy  he  had  administered  to  take  its  effect 
gradually.  He  knew  human  nature  too  well  to  fear  that  Greif 
could  ever  shut  his  eyes  to  the  prospect  unveiled  to  him.  Time 
must  pass,  and  in  passing  must  heal  the  gaping  wound  that  was 
yet  fresh.  Every  month  would  take  the  ghastly  tragedy  further 
away  and  bring  more  clearly  to  Greif's  mind  the  hope  of  happi 
ness.  As  for  the  rest,  it  was  buried  in  Rex's  heart  and  no 
power  would  ever  draw  from  him  the  secret  of  his  brother's 
birth.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  he  swore  to  hold  his  tongue.  He 
did  not  know  to  whom  the  great  Greifenstein  property  would 
go  if  he  told  the  world  that  Greif  was  a  nameless  orphan  with 
no  more  claim  to  his  father's  wealth  than  Rex  himself.  It 
seemed  strange  to  be  suggesting  to  Greif  the  means  of  discard 
ing  a  name  that  never  was  his,  but  which  must  in  all  prob 
ability  belong  to  some  one  who  coveted  it  in  spite  of  the 
associations  it  would  soon  have  for  all  who  heard  the  tale. 


206  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

Rex  sat  in  silence  thinking  over  the  almost  endless  intricacies 
of  the  situation,  and  wondering  what  would  have  happened  if 
that  letter  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  law,  and  what  would 
have  become  of  Greif.  He  would  have  been  absolutely  penni 
less.  Not  even  his  mother's  heritage,  if  there  were  any,  would 
have  belonged  to  him,  for  Rex  could  have  claimed  it  as  his  own. 
He  looked  at  the  handsome  face  of  his  cousin,  and  tried  to 
imagine  what  its  expression  would  have  been,  if  all  things  had 
taken  place  legally,  and  if  Greif  had  received  only  what  was  his 
due.  The  sensation  of  preserving  so  much  to  any  one  by  merely 
keeping  silence  was  strange  to  Rex.  He  did  not  know  whether 
he  himself  might  not  be  considered  a  party  in  a  fraud  if  the 
matter  were  tried  before  a  tribunal,  though  he  had  not  spoken 
one  untrue  word  in  the  whole  affair.  Verily,  silence  was  gold. 
To  Greif,  Rex's  silence  was  almost  equivalent  to  life  itself. 
One  word  could  deprive  him  of  everything,  of  Greif enstein,  of 
his  name,  of  every  item  and  miserable  object  he  possessed,  as 
well  as  of  the  broad  lands  and  the  accumulated  money.  He 
would  lose  all,  but  in  whose  favour  ?  Rex  did  not  know.  Per 
haps  the  lawful  heir  of  Greifenstein  was  a  poor  officer  of  foot 
in  a  third-rate  garrison  town,  eking  out  his  pay  with  the  remains 
of  a  meagre  inheritance,  desperately  poor,  and  as  desperately 
honourable.  Possibly  there  was  a  connexion  with  some  great 
and  powerful  family,  into  his  full  hands  everything  would  go,  if 
the  truth  were  known.  Possibly  —  Rex  stopped  short  in  his 
train  of  thought,  astonished  that  he  should  not  have  sooner 
hit  upon  the  fact  —  possibly  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  and  her 
daughter  were  the  only  living  relations.  It  seemed  almost  cer 
tain  that  this  must  be  the  case,  when  he  thought  about  it.  And 
if  so  —  if  he  held  his  peace,  and  if  Greif  persisted  in  not  marry 
ing  Hilda  —  why  then  he,  Rex,  was  keeping  that  gentle,  half- 
saintly  old  lady  out  of  her  rights.  The  new  confusion  caused 
by  the  idea  was  so  great  that  even  Rex's  tough  brain  was  dis 
turbed.  His  instinct  told  him  that  the  Siginundskrons  were 
poor  —  perhaps  they  were  in  real  want.  If  he  said  nothing,  if 
Greif  persisted,  if  in  later  years  Greif  married  another  wife,  as 
was  most  likely  and  possible,  what  sufferings  might  the  man 
who  had  brought  this  about  be  responsible  for  !  And  yet,  what 
a  prospect,  if  he  should  take  his  letter  from  his  pocket-book  and 
hand  it  to  Greif,  as  they  sat  side  by  side  in  the  quiet  room  before 
the  open  fire !  He  had  meant  to  burn  the  scrap  of  paper.  It 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  207 

would  be  easy  to  toss  it  into  the  flames  before  Greif 's  eyes.  But 
if  ever  all  those  things  should  happen  of  which  he  had  been 
thinking,  what  proof  would  remain  that  the  baroness  or  her 
daughter  had  a  right  to  what  was  theirs  even  now  ?  If  ever  that 
time  came,  Greif  would  not  believe  a  spoken  word.  Would  it 
not  have  been  best,  after  all,  to  give  the  writing  to  the  men  of 
the  law,  requesting  their  discretion  ?  No,  for  all  this  might  be 
spared,  if  only  Greif  married  Hilda.  Until  he  had  realised  what 
issues  were  at  stake,  Rex  had  been  satisfied  with  the  suggestion 
he  had  made  to  Greif,  believing  that  it  would  ultimately  bear 
fruit  in  the  desired  result.  Now,  however,  it  seemed  insufficient 
and  wholly  inadequate  to  the  importance  of  the  case.  Greif 
must  marry  Hilda,  and  the  letter  must  not  be  destroyed,  for  it 
might  prove  a  valuable  instrument  with  which  to  hasten  or  direct 
the  march  of  events.  After  all  —  were  the  Sigmundskrons  the 
only  relations  ? 

The  idea  that  they  were  the  only  heirs-at-law  had  presented 
itself  so  forcibly  that  the  sudden  doubt  concerning  the  fact  made 
Rex  desperate.  There  was  no  difficulty,  however,  in  ascertaining 
the  truth  from  Greif  himself  and  without  rousing  his  suspicions. 
It  was  even  natural  that  Rex  should  ask  the  question,  consider 
ing  what  had  gone  before. 

"Have  you  no  other  relations,  besides  the  Sigmundskrons, 
Greif?"  he  asked. 

"  None  but  you  yourself." 

"I  am  not  counted,  as  the  connexion  is  in  the  female  line," 
said  Rex  calmly.  "  I  mean,  if  you  were  to  die,  the  Sigmund 
skrons  would  be  the  heirs,  unless  you  married  and  had  children, 
would  they  not  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  I  suppose  they  would.     I  had  not  thought  of  it." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  this  constitutes  an  additional  argument 
in  favour  of  the  plan  I  suggested." 

Greif  did  not  answer  at  once,  for  he  felt  the  weight  of  Rex's 
words,  though  he  did  not  understand  the  whole  intention  of  his 
cousin. 

"I  cannot  argue  with  you  now,"  he  said  at  last,  as  though 
wishing  to  be  left  to  his  thoughts. 

Rex  was  too  wise  to  be  annoyed,  for  he  saw  that  Greif's  refusal 
to  discuss  the  matter  any  further  was  the  result  of  his  inclina 
tion  to  yield,  rather  than  of  a  hardening  determination.  The 
only  point  immediately  important  to  Rex  was  that  the  marriage 


208  GREIFENSTEIN. 

should  not  be  broken  off  abruptly  at  once.  He  did  not  know 
what  Hilda's  nature  might  be,  and  this  was  an  uncertain  element 
in  his  calculations.  It  was  certainly  most  probable  that  if  she 
loved  Greif  sincerely  she  would  not  part  with  him  easily,  nor 
suffer  him  to  sacrifice  himself  without  making  a  desperate  effort 
to  hold  him  back.  On  the  other  hand,  and  for  all  Rex  knew, 
Hilda  might  be  a  foolishly  sentimental,  half -frivolous  nonentity, 
who  would  take  offence  at  the  first  word  which  spoke  of  parting 
and  consider  herself  insulted  by  Greif 's  chivalrous  determination. 
She  might  be  a  suspicious  girl,  who  would  immediately  be  at 
tacked  with  jealousy  and  would  imagine  that  Greif  loved  another 
and  wished  to  be  free  from  herself.  On  the  whole,  Rex,  in  his 
worldly  wisdom,  thought  it  improbable  that  Hilda  would  turn 
out  to  be  sincere,  simple  and  loving,  whereas  for  her  own  interest 
it  was  important  that  she  should  possess  these  qualifications. 
Lastly,  Rex  reflected  that  Hilda  might  very  well  be  a  selfish, 
reticent,  scheming  young  woman,  who  would  know  how  to  man 
age  Greif  as  though  he  were  a  child.  He  almost  wished  that  she 
might  have  enough  worldly  guile  to  cling  to  Greif  for  his  fortune 
as  well  as  for  his  love  —  anything,  rather  than  that  the  marriage 
should  be  broken  off. 

If  that  disaster  occurred,  if  by  Greif's  impatient  desire  to  be 
generous  to  the  extreme  limit  of  what  honour  could  demand,  or 
by  Hilda  von  Sigmundskron's  possible  lack  of  affection  or  of 
wisdom,  the  two  were  to  be  permanently  separated,  Rex  confessed 
that  he  should  not  know  what  to  do.  His  own  position  would 
in  that  case  be  very  far  from  enviable,  for  he  would  certainly 
have  been  a  party  in  a  fraud,  of  which  the  practical  result  had 
been  that  the  Sigmundskrons  were  kept  out  of  their  property. 
The  moral  point  presented  to  his  conscience  was  an  extremely 
delicate  one  to  decide.  His  nature,  as  well  as  his  education, 
impelled  him  to  tell  the  truth  regardless  of  all  consequences, 
for  its  own  sake ;  but  the  question  arose,  whether  he  was  bound 
to  tell  what  he  knew,  when  no  one  asked  him  for  the  informa 
tion.  When  the  consequences  might  be  so  tremendous,  and  when 
the  least  effect  that  could  be  anticipated  must  be  the  immediate 
ruin  of  his  brother,  he  believed  that  he  should  be  justified  in 
his  silence,  provided  that  those  who  would  legitimately  profit 
by  the  secret  he  withheld  should  receive  all  the  advantages  to 
which  they  were  entitled.  It  seemed  to  him  a  case  in  which 
his  conscience  must  gamble  upon  the  probabilities.  If  it  turned 


GBEIFENSTEIN.  209 

out  well,  he  might  congratulate  himself  upon  having  produced 
much  happiness ;  if  he  lost  the  game,  he  must  endure  the 
humiliation  of  being  obliged  to  communicate  the  truth  to  both 
parties.  It  would  have  been  far  easier,  if  he  had  been  called 
upon  to  induce  Greif  to  make  an  apparent  sacrifice  for  the  sake 
of  a  good  he  could  not  understand.  The  young  man's  noble 
disposition  was  more  easily  led  in  the  direction  of  chivalrous 
self-renunciation,  than  towards  an  end  involving  personal  advan 
tage.  Indeed  Greif  would  almost  invariably  have  chosen  to 
give  rather  than  to  receive.  The  present  difficulty  consisted  in 
making  him  take  Hilda,  in  order  that  he  might  unconsciously 
give  her  what  was  hers.  At  first  Rex  had  considered  only 
Greif 's  happiness ;  now,  he  must  think  before  all  things  of 
Hilda's  fortune.  He  knew  Greif  well  enough  to  be  sure  that 
if  the  marriage  were  broken  off,  he  would  certainly  bestow  a 
considerable  portion  upon  the  Sigmundskrons  if  they  were 
really  poor,  but  this  could  not  be  enough.  Either  Hilda  must 
have  all  that  was  hers,  by  marrying  Greif,  or  Rex  must  tell  the 
story  and  precipitate  the  catastrophe.  The  only  condition  of 
his  concealing  what  he  knew,  was  that  every  one  except  himself 
should  gain  by  his  reticence.  If  this  could  not  be  accomplished 
justice  must  be  done  in  spite  of  the  consequences. 

Though  Rex's  blood  was  German,  his  character  had  suffered 
a  certain  modification  by  the  manner  of  his  bringing  up.  His 
mode  of  thought  certainly  differed  from  Greif's  to  an  extent 
which  could  not  be  accounted  for  upon  the  ground  of  tempera 
ment  alone.  Brave,  manly  and  sufficiently  generous  though  he 
was,  Rex  undeniably  had  a  preference  for  accomplishing  his 
ends  mysteriously  and  by  diplomatic  means,  a  characteristic 
more  southern  than  northern,  and  assuredly  not  German.  He 
was  a  man  well  able  to  sustain  whatever  part  he  chose  to  play, 
and  it  was  at  least  to  his  credit  that  he  never  employed  his 
remarkable  powers  of  concealment  to  a  bad  purpose.  In  his 
place,  Greif  would  have  told  everything,  and  would  then  have 
offered  everything  he  possessed  to  compensate  the  mischief 
done  by  the  truth ;  he  would  not  have  been  able  to  hide  what 
he  knew  for  a  week,  in  such  a  case,  for  his  extreme  love  of 
frankness  would  have  tortured  him  until  it  was  out,  but  if  there 
were  no  justice  to  be  accomplished,  he  could  have  held  his  peace 
as  well  as  another.  Rex  saw  far  and  clearly  before  him.  His 
sceptical  mind  could  not  accept  the  conventional  traditions  of 


210  GREIFENSTEIN. 

truthfulness  at  any  price,  of  honourable  sentiment  exaggerated 
to  Quixotism.  He  felt  the  necessity  of  weighing  results  before 
acting,  rather  than  of  following  moral  precepts  and  letting  the 
results  take  care  of  themselves.  To  him  iiltimate  good  was 
everything,  and  religious  morality  was  an  empty  bubble,  unless 
it  could  be  made  to  contribute  directly  and  clearly  to  a  good 
result.  With  Greif's  more  simple  and  straightforward  nature, 
truthfulness,  and  such  virtues  as  go  with  it,  were  invested  with 
all  the  superior  importance  which  religion  gives  to  each  present 
act  of  life,  and  so  far  as  the  future  was  concerned,  a  semi 
conscious  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  principle  supplied  the  place 
of  Rex's  well  thought-out  combinations  and  philosophical  dis 
quisitions  about  relative  right  and  wrong. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  211 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  effect  of  what  Rex  had  said  was  to  hasten  Greif's  action. 
After  listening  to  his  cousin's  arguments,  he  felt  that  what  was 
to  be  done  must  be  done  quickly,  lest  his  courage  should  fail 
him.  If  he  had  been  left  to  himself  he  would  never  have 
doubted  his  own  strength,  and  would  very  possibly  have  waited 
a  day  or  two  before  going-  to  Sigmundskron  to  bid  Hilda  fare 
well.  Now,  however,  he  felt  that  to  hesitate  or  delay  would  be 
fatal,  and  he  resolved  to  lose  no  time  in  carrying  out  his  inten 
tions.  In  order  to  isolate  himself  more  completely  from  all 
outward  influences  he  would  have  sent  Frau  von  Sigmundskron 
back  alone  and  would  have  followed  her  a  few  hours  later ;  but 
his  sense  of  common  decency,  as  well  as  his  profound  gratitude, 
forbade  such  a  course.  He  could  not  by  any  means  avoid  the 
long  drive  in  her  company,  and  he  tried  to  harden  his  heart  as 
he  submitted  to  his  destiny.  It  was  certain  that,  unless  she  had 
changed  her  mind,  she  would  talk  of  the  matter  of  his  visit, 
and  would  repeat  in  his  unwilling  ear  all  those  arguments  which 
appealed  to  his  heart  so  strongly,  and  which  so  grievously  shook 
his  chivalrous  resolution. 

During  the  long  night  that  succeeded  the  day  of  the  funeral 
ceremony,  the  sorrow  of  the  parting  which  was  before  him 
assumed  such  proportions  as  made  the  past  seem  less  horrible, 
and  the  change  from  one  kind  of  suffering  to  another  afforded  his 
exhausted  nature  a  relief  of  which  he  was  not  conscious,  but 
which  was  nevertheless  very  real.  He  himself  could  not  under 
stand  how  it  had  been  possible  for  him  to  discuss  with  Rex 
matters  so  closely  connected  with  his  future  happiness,  scarcely 
an  hour  after  the  heavy  gates  of  the  mausoleum  had  closed 
upon  the  father  he  had  so  deeply  loved,  and  upon  the  mother 
he  so  tenderly  regretted.  For  he  did  mourn  for  her  sincerely, 
in  spite  of  his  earlier  indifference.  He  was  yet  too  near  the 
catastrophe  to  attempt  to  explain  it,  but  in  the  confusion  of 
his  grief  her  words  came  vividly  to  his  mind.  He  recalled  the 


212  GREIFENSTEIK. 

expression  of  her  face  when  she  had  implored  him  not  to  for 
sake  her,  whatever  happened,  and  he  knew  that  in  some  way 
she  must,  even  then,  have  had  a  forewarning  of  her  end.  He 
remembered  many  strange  incongruities  in  her  manner,  which 
he  had  once  disliked  intensely,  but  which  now  pointed  to  the 
existence  of  a  secret  in  her  quiet  life,  and  which,  having  seemed 
contemptible  when  she  had  been  alive,  took  a  tragic  importance 
now  that  she  was  gone.  lie  recalled  very  clearly  that  morning 
when  he  had  felt  a  thrill  of  pitying  tenderness  for  the  lonely 
woman,  and  when  she  had  responded  so  suddenly  and  passion 
ately  to  his  simple  words.  He  had  never  loved  her,  and  had 
perhaps  had  little  cause  for  any  affection,  but  the  suddenness 
and  the  horror  of  her  death  strengthened  in  him  every  kind 
memory,  and  overshadowed  by  its  dark  presence  whatever  in 
her  life  had  lacked  dignity  and  worth. 

As  for  his  father,  he  had  felt  for  him  a  passionate  devotion 
of  which  he  dared  not  think  now.  And  yet  he  had  been  able 
to  talk  with  Rex,  if  not  freely,  at  least  with  a  complete  com 
mand  of  his  faculties.  He  would  have  reproached  himself  with 
heartlessness,  but  when  his  thoughts  dwelt  upon  those  he  had 
lost,  he  knew  that  the  self-accusation  was  unmerited.  Not 
comprehending  what  passed  in  his  own  mind,  and  finding  him 
self  face  to  face  with  a  problem  that  seemed  to  involve  his  own 
life  or  death,  it  is  not  altogether  surprising  that  he  should  have 
persisted  in  undergoing  a  self-imposed  suffering  which  he  almost 
unconsciously  regarded  as  a  test  of  heroism. 

But  as  he  did  his  best  to  fortify  himself  in  his  intention 
another  power  stood  before  him,  not  a  gloomy  presence  of  evil, 
not  a  sorrowful  but  relentless  fate,  not  a  thing  in  itself  terrible, 
grand  or  heroic,  and  yet  stronger  and  more  real  than  any  of 
those  other  shadows  which  surrounded  his  life.  He  had  not 
known  that  it  was  with  him  in  such  a  shape,  he  had  not  realised 
what  it  would  be  to  face  that  which  has  conquered  all  men 
sooner  or  later.  The  love  of  Hilda,  which  had  softened  all  his 
youth,  but  which  in  its  unopposed  calm  had  seemed  so  gentle 
and  tender  that  by  an  effort  of  his  strong  will  he  might  put  it 
off  if  he  would,  the  quiet  spirit  of  calm  which  had  been  with 
him  so  long,  pui-ifying  his  thoughts,  simplifying  his  hopes  for 
the  future,  encouraging  him  ever  in  each  present  day,  the  love 
of  untarnished  youth  for  spotless  maidenhood  rose  up  like  the 
dawn,  upon  a  traveller  in  a  strange  land,  shedding  its  universal 


GftElFENSTEIN.  213 

light  upon  the  secret  places  of  his  soul.  It  was  a  wonderful 
revelation  of  beauty  appearing  in  the  midst  of  his  sorrow,  con 
trasting  the  magnificence  of  its  splendour  with  the  darkness  in 
which  he  would  have  hidden  himself. 

He  groaned  as  he  lay  alone  in  his  solitary  chamber,  and  the 
passionate  tears  burst  from  his  eyes.  He  had  met  at  last  that 
which  must  vanquish  all  his  resolutions,  and  turn  all  his  des 
perate  efforts  into  vanity.  That  sudden  flash  of  radiance  in  the 
midst  of  his  grief  was  but  a  dark  shadow  compared  with  the  light 
of  Hilda's  face.  If  the  mere  thought  of  her  made  all  resistance 
seem  impossible,  would  he  be  able  to  go  to  her  to-morrow  and 
tell  her  that  they  must  part  ?  But  it  was  not  a  mere  thought, 
as  he  called  it.  He  had  thought  of  her  for  years,  but  never  in 
this  way ;  she  had  dwelt  in  his  heart  a  long  time  but  he  had 
never  felt  anything  like  this.  It  was  true  that  he  had  never 
resisted  her  presence  before.  Could  that  be  the  reason  ?  Could 
it  be  that  love  was  a  companion  for  the  weakest  of  mankind,  if 
kindly  entertained,  and  yet,  if  resisted,  the  master  of  the  very 
strongest  ?  Greif  in  his  pride  of  youth  believed  himself  as  strong 
as  any,  and  the  sensation  of  being  thus  utterly  overpowered  was 
crushing  and  humiliating.  He  would  not  yield,  but  he  well 
knew  that  he  was  conquered  beforehand,  and  must  be  led  away 
captive  in  the  end. 

He  sat  up  and  tried  to  reason  with  himself.  It  was  but  an 
illusion  after  all,  and  it  was  just  such  an  illusion  as  should 
strengthen  his  purpose.  If  Hilda  were  indeed,  as  she  doubtless 
was,  this  exquisitely  lovely  creature,  could  anything  be  more  con 
temptible  than  to  give  her  a  name  which  must  be  a  reproach,  a 
position  in  which  her  beautiful  life  must  be  made  half  shameful 
by  the  memory  of  hideous  crimes  ? 

Momentarily  satisfied  with  himself,  he  once  more  laid  his  head 
upon  the  pillow,  but  he  had  hardly  closed  his  eyes  when  Rex's 
suggestion  flashed  through  his  brain,  and  Hilda's  clear  voice 
seemed  to  cry  "  Sigmundskron !  "  in  his  ears.  The  thought  of 
bearing  another  name,  of  being  no  longer  Greifenstein,  of  being 
the  father  of  a  new  race  in  a  new  home,  presented  itself  to  him 
in  all  its  attractions.  After  all,  said  Rex  to  his  conscience,  you 
are  wholly  innocent,  and  it  is  only  the  sound  of  the  name  to 
which  you  object  or  which  you  fear  for  her.  Take  hers  and  be 
happy  under  it,  since  you  would  be  miserable  under  your  own. 
After  all,  one  is  as  good  as  another,  and  it  would  be  better  to  be 


214  GREIFENSTEDST. 

plain  Herr  Rex  than  to  throw  over  the  joy  of  a  lifetime  for  the 
sake  of  three  syllables  that  have  a  disagreeable  ring.  Names 
are  nonsense  and  a  man's  reputation  is  his  own,  not  to  be  made 
or  marred  by  his  father's  evil  deeds.  The  Sigmundskrons  know 
all,  and  it  is  for  them  to  judge,  not  for  you.  If  they  will  make 
you  one  of  them,  what  right  have  you  to  make  them  unhappy 
for  the  sake  of  your  own  prejudices? 

Greif  was  very  young  to  cope  with  such  difficulties,  when  even 
love  itself  was  against  him.  Though  Rex  said  little,  that  little 
was  eloquent  and  full  of  practical  sense,  like  many  of  Rex's  say 
ings.  Greif  shed  bitter  tears  and  ground  his  teeth  and  wrung 
his  hands. 

"  Hilda !  Hilda  !  "  he  cried  aloud  in  his  solitude,  "  what  would 
you  have  me  do,  if  you  knew  all,  if  you  knew  me,  if  you  knew 
my  heart !  " 

When  a  man  appeals  against  his  love  to  the  woman  who 
loves  him,  his  resolutions  are  at  their  last  gasp  for  existence. 
Hilda  answered  his  heart  before  the  spoken  words  were  out  of 
his  mouth. 

"  Love  me,  dear  —  that  is  all  I  ask !  "  It  was  as  though  her 
voice  mingling  with  his  own  sounded  aloud  in  the  lonely  room, 
and  Greif  started  up,  his  eyes  wide  open,  his  breath  caught  upon 
his  lips. 

It  was  the  merest  illusion,  but  its  vividness  showed  him 
the  power  of  what  produced  it.  He  was  struggling  bravely 
for  an  idea,  trying  to  do  what  seemed  knightly,  and  noble,  and 
high,  and  vanquished  though  he  was,  he  would  fight  to  the 
very  end. 

The  cold,  bright  morning  rose  over  the  sombre  trees  and 
suddenly  entered  his  chamber  like  the  broad  reflexion  of  polished 
steel,  a  chilly  glare  of  snow  and  cloudless  sky  seen  through  a 
window  high  above  the  earth  in  midwinter.  Greif  awoke  from 
the  broken  slumber  that  had  come  to  him  at  last,  and  looked 
anxiously  about  him.  Somehow  the  sweet  vision  that  had  so 
much  disturbed  him,  when  he  could  see  nothing  real  but  the 
glow  of  the  dying  embers  on  the  hearth,  was  dissipated  and 
gone  under  the  cruelty  of  the  icy  daylight.  With  a  heavy  heart 
he  rose  and  looked  out  upon  the  forest.  From  the  place  where 
he  stood  he  could  see  the  tall  trees  that  surrounded  the  burial- 
ground  of  his  race,  and  his  eyes  grew  dark  and  gloomy  as  he 


GREIFENSTEIN.  215 

thought  of  those  who  lay  there.  He  was  sadder  and  stronger 
than  he  had  been  a  few  hours  ago.  He  would  sit  beside  the 
baroness  during  the  long  drive  to  Sigmundskron,  and  what  she 
might  say  would  make  no  impression  upon  him,  no  more  than 
the  ringing  of  the  horses'  bells  made  upon  the  frozen  snow.  He 
would  meet  Hilda  in  the  well-remembered  sitting-room,  and 
Hilda's  mother  would  leave  them  alone.  It  would  be  cold 
there,  for  there  was  never  much  fire.  She  would  perhaps  be 
pale  —  a  little  pale,  and  her  eyes  would  be  cast  down.  She 
would  sit  upon  one  side  of  the  stone  chimney-piece,  and  he 
would  stand  upon  the  other.  There  would  be  a  moment's  pause, 
and  then  he  would  tell  her  everything.  It  could  not  last 
long,  and  when  it  was  over  he  would  have  conquered  in  the 
struggle. 

He  would  drive  back  alone  in  the  late  afternoon  through  the 
dismal  forest.  To-morrow  he  would  leave  Greifenstein  and  go 
to  his  lawyer  in  the  city.  Half  of  his  fortune  should  be  Hilda's, 
and  she  should  restore  Sigmundskron  and  marry  whomsoever 
she  would.  Then  he  would  be  free,  and  he  would  go  away  with 
Rex  to  some  distant  country,  not  to  return  for  half  a  lifetime,  if 
he  ever  returned  at  all. 

The  plan  was  simple,  comprehensive  and  satisfactory.  Noth 
ing  remained  but  to  put  it  into  immediate  execution.  He  had 
given  the  necessary  orders  on  the  previous  night  and,  as  soon 
as  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  was  ready,  they  would  start  upon 
their  drive.  He  finished  dressing  and  went  in  search  of  Rex. 
The  latter  looked  even  more  pale  and  disturbed  than  Greif 
himself,  though  with  characteristic  determination  he  was 
attempting  to  eat  his  breakfast. 

"I  am  going  to  Sigmundskron,"  said  Greif  entering  the 
room.  "Will  you  wait  for  me  here?  To-morrow  we  will  go 
away,  or  to-night,  if  you  like." 

"I  will  wait  willingly.  Where  should  I  go?"  Rex  rose, 
pushing  the  silver  salver  away  from  him. 

"Very  good.  I  shall  be  back  at  dusk.  Good-bye."  Greif 
held  out  his  hand  in  evident  anxiety  to  get  away,  for  he  did 
not  want  to  hear  any  more  of  his  cousin's  plausible  reasoning, 
and  dreaded  lest  Rex  should  broach  the  subject  of  his  errand. 
But  the  latter  detained  him  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Do  nothing  rash  or  hasty,  Greif,"  he  said  earnestly.     "  A 


216  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

life's  happiness  is  easily  thrown  away,  and  hardly  found  again 
when  you  have  parted  with  it  —  and  more  than  half  of  life's 
happiness  is  the  love  of  woman.  Good-bye." 

Greif  made  his  escape  as  quickly  as  he  could,  but  Rex  had 
found  time  and  words  to  touch  the  strongest  cord  in  his  heart. 
As  he  descended  the  stairs  he  felt  again  something  of  the 
influence  that  had  visited  him  in  the  night,  and  he  wished  that 
he  had  not  gone  to  Rex's  room  before  leaving  the  house. 

The  sight  of  Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  wrapped  in  her  dark 
mantle  for  the  journey,  recalled  him  to  himself.  Her  kind  eyes 
looked  at  him  almost  lovingly  from  beneath  the  hood  that 
covered  her  white  hair,  as  he  bent  and  kissed  her  hand.  Neither 
spoke  as  they  gained  the  court  and  got  into  the  carriage,  but 
while  Greif  was  wrapping  her  in  the  heavy  furs  and  arranging 
a  cushion  behind  her,  he  felt  that  she  meant  to  do  all  she  could 
to  dissuade  him  from  his  intention  on  the  way,  and  he  knew 
that  the  real  struggle  was  yet  to  come.  Then  Rex  appeared 
again,  bareheaded,  to  bid  farewell  to  the  baroness  and  to  say 
a  few  words  of  heartfelt  thanks.  He  alone  knew  how  much 
both  he  and  Greif  owed  to  her  discretion ;  far  more  than  she 
dreamed  of,  as  she  answered  him  and  gave  him  her  hand. 

The  horses  plunged  forward,  their  hoofs  clashing  noisily  upon 
the  pavement  of  the  court ;  out  of  the  bright  light  the  carriage 
disappeared  into  the  darkness  of  the  gateway  and  as  quickly 
rolled  out  again  upon  the  dazzling  snow  beyond.  After  that 
there  would  be  snow  and  trees  and  rocks,  and  rocks  and  trees 
and  snow,  until  the  grey  towers  of  Sigmundskron  loomed  up 
above  the  tops  of  the  furs. 

Greif  leaned  back  in  silence,  as  they  spun  over  the  white 
road.  Every  moment  now  was  a  moment  gained,  provided  that 
nothing  were  said  to  weaken  his  purpose.  He  braced  himself 
in  his  seat,  with  his  feet  and  his  back,  as  though  he  expected 
the  carriage  to  upset,  and  closed  his  lips  tightly  as  if  to  meet 
a  physical  accident. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  glanced  at  him  once  or  twice  and 
noticed  his  expression,  and  his  resolution  to  look  straight  before 
him.  Had  she  possessed  Rex's  penetration,  she  would  have 
guessed  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  As  it  was,  she  vaguely 
suspected  that  he  had  not  altogether  given  up  his  plan,  and  the 
thought  made  her  uneasy.  She  could  see  the  clearly  cut  out 
line  of  his  handsome  face  without  turning  her  head.  He  had  put 


GREIFENSTEIN.  217 

on  a  fur  coat,  and  she  thought  that  fur  was  singularly  becoming 
to  fair  men  who  had  good  complexions  —  a  frivolous  observa 
tion,  apparently,  but  in  reality  not  so  worthless  as  it  appeared. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  impression  Greif  would  make  upon 
Hilda,  and  wondering  whether  the  girl  would  find  him  greatly 
changed  or  not.  She  was  woman  enough  to  suppose  that  much 
would  depend  upon  the  first  moments  of  the  meeting  which 
was  about  to  take  place,  and  upon  the  look  Greif  should  first 
see  in  Hilda's  eyes.  If  he  found  her  sad,  pale,  ready  to  pity 
him,  his  nature  would  be  hardened,  partly  because  he  hated  to 
be  pitied  by  any  one,  partly  because  that  same  irritation  would 
help  him  to  execute  his  purpose.  But  if,  on  the  contrary,  Hilda 
met  him  with  an  ill-concealed  joy,  if  there  were  light  in  her 
bright  eyes  and  colour  in  her  cheeks,  if  her  voice  spoke  sym 
pathy  in  his  sorrows  while  her  face  told  him  of  her  gladness 
in  the  meeting,  then  things  might  turn  out  very  differently. 
After  all,  thought  Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  Greif  was  only  a 
man,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  act  altogether  wisely  unless 
a  woman  helped  him. 

She  had  certainly  not  always  held  such  beliefs,  but  in  latter 
years  they  had  grown  upon  her.  Sigmundskron  was  a  women's 
establishment  and  naturally  independent.  The  baroness  had 
grown  to  think  that,  after  all,  women,  when  thrown  entirely 
upon  their  own  resources,  can  manage  better  than  men.  She 
was  sure  that  no  three  men  could  have  lived  so  decently  and 
fairly  well  upon  as  little  as  sufficed  for  herself,  Hilda  and  Berbel. 
It  is  true  that  the  distance  from  such  daily  forethought  and 
hourly  prudence  as  she  needed  in  her  life,  to  such  wisdom  as 
Rex,  for  instance,  possessed  so  abundantly,  was  considerable; 
but  the  baroness  looked  upon  that  as  an  insignificant  argument, 
if  indeed  it  presented  itself  to  her  mind  at  all.  She  thought 
little  of  Greif's  determination  to  persist,  if  only  Hilda  could 
seem  more  glad  to  see  him,  than  sympathising  in  his  misfor 
tunes.  With  a  woman's  wholesale  faith  in  woman,  she  believed 
utterly  in  the  power  of  one  of  Hilda's  glances  to  keep  Greif  at 
Sigmundskron  for  ever.  Especially  good  women  believe  in  all 
other  women,  more  than  those  who  are  neither  notably  good 
nor  notably  bad.  A  man's  faith  in  his  fellows  bears  little  or 
no  relation  to  his  own  moral  character,  the  best  men  being  often 
the  most  distrustful,  and  not  always  the  most  agreeable  com 
panions.  But  the  better  a  woman  is,  the  more  she  believes  all 


218  GREIFENSTEIN. 

other  women  to  be  both  good  and  wise,  a  phenomenon  not 
hitherto  explained,  though  very  frequently  observed.  The 
baroness  held  views  of  this  sort  concerning  Hilda  and  old 
Berbel.  It  was  characteristic  of  her  that,  as  soon  as  her  gener 
osity  had  got  the  better  of  her  hesitation  in  regard  to  the 
marriage,  she  began  to  consider  Greif  in  the  light  of  a  well- 
beloved  adversary,  whom  the  feminine  powers  of  Sigmundskron 
must  vanquish  for  his  own  good.  It  was  characteristic,  too, 
that  in  all  her  uncertainty  she  had  never  considered  for  a 
moment  the  great  worldly  advantages  to  be  gained  or  lost. 

"  We  might  have  sent  word  that  we  were  coming,"  she  said, 
when  they  had  driven  more  than  a  mile  without  speaking. 
"  Hilda  would  have  come  to  meet  us  on  the  road." 

"  It  is  better  so,"  answered  Greif  mournfully. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  —  it  would  have  given  the  child  such 
pleasure,"  remarked  his  companion,  glancing  at  his  face  to  see 
whether  his  expression  would  change  or  not. 

"  Would  it,  do  you  think  ?  "  asked  Greif  in  an  indifferent 
tone,  though  a  very  slight  colour  rose  in  his  pale  face. 

"Indeed  it  would.  It  is  wrong  in  you  to  (loubt  it.  Poor 
Hilda  !  She  has  not  too  many  pleasures  of  any  sort,  and  meet 
ing  you  is  one  of  the  greatest." 

The.  blush  in  Greif's  cheek  deepened.  Again  he  set  his  feet 
firmly  before  him  and  braced  himself  in  his  seat  as  though  to 
resist  a  shock.  He  hated  himself  for  betraying  his  feeling  in 
his  face,  and  wished  it  were  night.  The  baroness  continued  to 
speak  in  gentle  tones,  determined  to  obtain  an  answer  from  him, 
and  if  possible  to  make  him  engage  in  argument,  for  she  be 
lieved  that  if  he  argued  he  was  lost. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  It  is  a  lonely  life  she  leads  up  there.  I 
am  too  old  to  be  a  real  companion,  and  there  is  only  old  Berbel 
besides.  It  is  pathetic  to  see  her  begin  to  count  the  days  as 
soon  as  you  are  gone,  and  to  watch  her  face  as  it  gradually 
turns  less  grave  when  more  than  half  the  score  is  marked 
away." 

"  Does  she  do  that  ? "  asked  Greif,  conscious  that  he  was 
growing  crimson. 

"  Always.  She  used  to  do  it,  when  she  was  a  mere  child,  and 
you  were  only  an  overgrown  boy.  It  seems  to  me  that  she 
always  loved  you,  long  before  —  long  ago,  I  mean." 

Greif  sighed,  and  looked  away.     The  half-bovish  blush  faded 


GREIFENSTEIIsr.  219 

slowly  from  his  cheeks  and  left  his  face  paler  than  before.  The 
good  lady  saw  the  change  with  regret,  and  wondered  whether 
the  slip  of  the  tongue  she  had  made  in  her  last  sentence  could 
have  anything  to  do  with  it.  But  she  did  not  despair,  though 
she  allowed  a  few  moments  to  pass  in  silence.  To  her  surprise 
it  was  Greif  who  renewed  the  conversation,  and  in  a  manner 
she  had  not  in  the  least  expected. 

"I  have  always  loved  Hilda,"  he  said,  avoiding  her  eyes 
resolutely.  "  Ever  since  I  first  remember  your  bringing  her  to 
Greifenstein.  We  were  very  small,  and  it  must  have  been  in 
the  spring,  for  we  picked  mayflowers  and  found  strawberries  in 
the  woods." 

"  She  was  not  more  than  six  years  old  then,"  observed  Frau 
von  Sigmundskron. 

"  And  I  was  eleven,  I  think,"  replied  Greif,  forgetting  his 
effort  to  be  silent  in  the  childish  reminiscence.  "  Was  that  the 
first  time  you  came  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so.  It  was  four  years  after  we  came  to  live  in 
Sigmundskron." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  sooner  ?  "  Greif  asked.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  it  would  be  wise  to  keep  the  conversation  upon  the 
doings  of  twelve  years  ago.  Another  mile  of  the  road  was 
passed,  and  he  was  still  unshaken. 

"There  were  many  reasons,"  answered  the  baroness.  "We 
had  not  always  been  on  the  best  of  terms,  perhaps  because  we 
had  scarcely  ever  met,  and  I  did  not  care  to  seem  to  be  forc 
ing  my  acquaintance  upon  my  relations,  so  I  stayed  away  for 
a  while.  After  all,  what  really  brought  as  together  more  'than 
anything  else,  was  the  fondness  of  you  two  children  for  each 
other,  which  showed  itself  from  the  first.  They  brought  you  to 
see  Hilda,  and  then  we  went  to  your  house  again  —  and  so  — 
gradually  —  " 

"  I  remember  that  Hilda  wore  a  blue  frock  the  first  time  she 
came,"  remarked  Greif  quickly,  with  an  attempt  to  check  the 
baroness's  advance  towards  present  times.  The  intention  was  so 
evident  that  she  could  not  help  smiling  a  little  under  her  hood, 
and  reflecting  with  some  satisfaction  that  upon  this  subject,  at 
least,  she  was  more  than  a  match  for  him. 

"  Perhaps  she  did,"  she  answered.  "  I  remember  that  she  once 
had  a  blue  frock." 

The  triviality  of  what  they  were  saying  to  each  other  struck 


220  GREIFENSTEIN. 

Greif  all  at  once,  as  compared  with  the  horror  of  what  they  had 
left  behind  them  at  Greif enstein.  It  was  but  the  third  day 
since  that  fearful  catastrophe  had  darkened  his  life,  and  he  was 
exchanging  remarks  about  the  clothes  Hilda  had  worn  when  she 
was  a  child.  lie  thought  he  must  be  shamefully  heartless,  un 
less  he  were  going  mad,  which,  considering  his  words,  seemed 
probable  to  himself.  He  leaned  back  again,  and  stared  absently 
at  the  moving  landscape.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  father's 
spirit  was  gliding  along,  high  in  the  black  trees  beside  the  road, 
like  mighty  Wodin  in  the  northern  forests,  watching  the  son  he 
had  left  behind  and  listening  to  the  foolish  words  that  fell  from 
his  lips.  The  baroness  attributed  the  sudden  chill  of  his  man 
ner,  and  the  gloomy  look  on  his  face  to  another  cause. 

"  That  was  very  long  ago,"  she  said,  taking  advantage  of  his 
silence.  "  Since  then,  Hilda  has  grown  up,  and  you  have  be 
come  a  man,  and  the  love  that  began  when  you  were  children 
has  — ' 

"  I  cannot  marry  her !  "  exclaimed  Greif,  so  sharply  and  sud 
denly  that  his  companion  started  and  looked  anxiously  into  his 
face. 

"  Then  you  will  kill  her,"  answered  Frau  von  Sigmundskron, 
after  a  short  and  painful  pause.  She,  too,  was  roused  to  abandon 
the  harmless  attempt  at  diplomacy  which  had  failed,  and  to  speak 
out  what  was  in  her  heart. 

She  was  indignant  with  Greif,  and  she  forgot  altogether  that 
she  had  at  first  felt  precisely  as  he  did  himself  in  regard  to  the 
marriage.  As  the  trees  flew  past  and  every  effort  of  the  strong 
horses  brought  her  nearer  to  her  home,  she  knew  Hilda  was  first, 
and  the  instinct  to  defend  her  child  from  pain  and  sorrow  grad 
ually  began  to  dominate  her.  Mild  and  gentle  as  she  was,  she 
was  ready  to  attack  Greif  and  to  force  him  to  marry  her 
daughter  whether  he  would  or  not.  She  grew  nervous,  for  the 
coming  meeting  between  the  two  might  decide  their  fate,  and 
every  moment  lost  might  be  the  most  important.  Greif  did  not 
reply  at  once  to  what  she  had  said,  but  a  shiver  passed  through 
his  limbs  and  he  drew  the  furs  more  closely  about  him. 

"  You  are  wrong,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Hilda  will  forget  me  in 
time  and  will  marry  a  better  man  and  a  happier  one.  I  did  not 
mean  to  tell  you — I  may  as  well  —  I  shall  make  arrangements 
to  give  her  half  of  what  I  have  in  the  world.  She  will  be  an 
heiress  then,  and  can  marry  well." 


GREIFENSTEIN.  221 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  did  not  understand  him.  To  her, 
the  speech  seemed  cynical  and  brutal,  an  insult  to  Hilda's  love, 
a  slight  upon  her  own  poverty.  The  gentle  lady's  pale  and 
delicate  face  flushed  suddenly  with  righteous  anger  and  her 
small  hands  were  clenched  tightly  beneath  the  furs.  There  was 
a  bright  light  in  her  soft  blue  eyes  as  she  answered  him. 

"  Hilda  will  neither  accept  your  fortune,  nor  forget  you  — 
though  it  would  be  better,  perhaps,  if  you  could  pass  out  of  her 
memory." 

Greif  could  not  see  her  face  which  was  hidden  by  the  hood 
she  wore,  without  leaning  forward,  but  her  words  and  her  tone 
surprised  him.  He  had  been  very  far  from  supposing  that  he 
should  offend  her  by  making  such  a  proposal  or  by  hinting  that 
Hilda  might  marry  happily  at  some  future  time.  The  emotion 
he  had  felt  had  probably  made  his  voice  sound  harshly,  and 
after  all,  he  had  perhaps  shown  little  delicacy  in  speaking  of 
the  money,  but  he  was  quite  unprepared  for  his  companion's 
freezing  answer.  With  Greif,  however,  it  was  impossible  that 
any  misunderstanding  should  last  long,  for  he  was  too  honest 
and  frank  to  submit  to  being  misunderstood  himself. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  thought  that  I  meant,"  he  said, 
turning  towards  her.  "But  you  would  not  be  angry  if  I  had 
explained  myself  better." 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  gave  him  no  assistance,  but  sat  quite 
still  in  her  seat.  In  her  view  he  had  spoken  lightly  of  her 
child's  love  and  had  proposed  to  set  matters  right  by  giving  her 
some  of  his  money.  She  was  angry,  and  she  believed  that  she 
had  a  right  to  be. 

"I  love  Hilda,"  continued  Greif,  and  his  voice  trembled  a 
little.  If  there  were  a  phrase  which  he  had  not  meant  to  pro 
nounce,  or  to  think  of  during  the  day,  it  was  that.  He  found 
himself  in  a  position  which  obliged  him  to  affirm  the  strength 
of  his  love,  and  the  mere  sound  of  the  words  disturbed  him  so 
that  he  stopped  short,  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"You  do  not  act  as  though  you  loved  her,"  said  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron  coldly.  Two  days  earlier  it  had  seemed  to  her 
that  in  renouncing  Hilda  he  was  giving  proof  of  a  heroic  devo 
tion,  and  yet  she  was  not  really  an  inconsistent  woman. 

"I  mean  to,"  answered  Greif  rather  hotly.  "If  I  refuse  to 
marry  her,  it  is  because  I  love  her  too  much  to  do  her  such  an 
irreparable  injury.  I  do  not  see  how  I  could  love  her  more. 


222  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

As  for  the  rest,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  love  or  hers.  You 
are  the  only  heir  to  Greif  en  stein  after  me,  and  when  I  die  it 
will  in  any  case  be  all  yours,  or  Hilda's.  I  can  do  nothing  with 
so  much,  and  you  may  as  well  have  the  benefit  of  what  will  be 
yours  some  day  —  perhaps  very  soon.  Is  that  unreasonable? 
Does  that  offend  you?  If  it  does,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it, 
and  forgive  me  for  having  said  as  much." 

"It  would  be  better  not  to  speak  of  the  fortune,"  said  the 
baroness,  beginning  to  relent. 

"And  you  understand  me — about  Hilda?  " 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  do,"  replied  Frau  von  Sigmundskron 
with  all  the  obstinacy  of  a  good  woman  thoroughly  roused  in 
what  she  believes  to  be  a  good  cause.  "You  love  her,  and  yet 
you  are  willing  to  make  her  miserably  unhappy.  The  two  facts 
do  not  agree." 

Greif  suppressed  a  groan  and  looked  at  the  trees  before  he 
answered.  If  she  would  only  have  left  him  alone,  it  would  have 
been  so  much  easier  to  do  what  he  knew  was  right. 

"It  is  perhaps  better  that  she  should  be  unhappy  for  a  time, 
now,  while  she  is  young,  than  regret  her  name  when  she  has 
taken  mine."  His  own  words  had  a  sententious  sound  in  his 
ear  and  he  felt  that  they  were  utterly  inadequate,  but  he  was 
fighting  against  heavy  odds  and  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"  I  tell  you  that  the  child  would  die  of  a  broken  heart !  " 
exclaimed  the  baroness  with  the  greatest  conviction.  "You 
say  you  love  her,  but  you  do  not  know  her  as  I  do.  I  suppose 
you  will  allow  that  it  would  be  better  that  she  should  have 
moments  of  regret  in  a  lifetime  of  happiness,  than  that  she 
should  die." 

She  was  certainly  using  strong  language,  but  the  time  was 
passing  rapidly  and  in  the  distance  she  could  distinguish  already 
the  grey  towers  of  Sigmundskron  crowning  the  beetling  crag. 
She  was  to  be  pardoned  if  she  seemed  to  exaggerate  Hilda's 
danger,  but  she  believed  every  word  she  spoke,  and  she  was 
growing  more  and  more  nervous  at  every  turn  of  the  road. 

"If  I  believed  that,  if  I  even  thought  that  were  better  for 
Hilda's  happiness  — 

Greif  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  on 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  though  he  was  still  inwardly  con 
vinced  that  he  was  right  and  that  she  was  wrong.  The  bar 
oness  thought  the  day  was  almost  won.  All  her  anger  melted 


GREIFENSTEIN.  223 

away  in  the  prospect  of  success  and  she  talked  nmch  and 
earnestly,  dilating  upon  the  situation  and  using  every  argument 
of  persuasion  which  she  could  devise.  But  Greif  said  little, 
and  though  he  was  careful  not  to  offend  her  afresh,  he  did  not 
again  come  so  near  to  committing  himself,  as  he  had  done 
once. 

"  And  for  that  matter,"  said  the  baroness,  as  the  carriage 
swung  round  the  curve  and  began  the  last  ascent  that  ended  at 
the  castle  gate,  "  for  that  matter,  you  can  call  yourself  Sigmund- 
skron  instead  of  Greif  en  stein." 

Greif  moved  uneasily  in  his  furs.  It  seemed  as  though  every 
thing  were  conspiring  against  him. 


224  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

HILDA'S  quick  eyes  had  discerned  the  carriage  when  it  was 
still  far  down  upon  the  road,  a  mere  moving  speck  in  the  dis 
tance.  She  had  thought  it  probable  that  her  mother  would 
return  on  that  day,  and  she  knew  that  she  would  be  driven 
over  from  Greifenstein.  Moreover,  it  was  very  likely  that  Greif 
would  accompany  her,  and  from  the  moment  when  she  first 
saw  the  vehicle,  she  watched  it  and  followed  it  along  the  wind 
ing  road  until  she  could  clearly  see  that  a  man  was  seated  beside 
her  mother.  Then  the  look  of  anxiety  disappeared  all  at  once 
from  her  fair  face,  and  was  followed  by  an  expression  of  satis 
fied  happiness  which  would  have  been  good  to  see  if  any  one 
had  been  there  to  watch  her. 

She  was  standing  upon  a  high  part  of  the  half-ruined  building, 
on  the  northern  side,  and  a  person  looking  up  from  the  road 
below  could  have  seen  her  tall  figure  in  strong  relief  against 
the  pale  winter  sky.  She  had  dressed  herself  all  in  black,  but 
a  wide  mantle  of  coarse  grey  woollen  stuff,  gathered  into  a  hood 
at  the  top  and  drawn  tightly  round  her  against  the  biting  wind, 
concealed  all  her  figure,  leaving  only  her  face  visible.  Rough 
and  poor  as  the  material  was,  it  became  her  well,  better  perhaps 
than  the  richest  furs  could  have  done.  Its  folds  fell  gracefully 
to  her  feet  as  she  held  the  cloak  closely  about  her,  and  the 
unbroken  neutral  tint  showed  her  height  more  plainly,  and  set 
off  the  marvellous  beauty  of  her  skin  with  a  better  contrast 
than  any  brighter  colour. 

.  Sigmundskron  had  been  very  desolate  and  lonely  during  the 
last  two  days,  since  Hilda's  mother  had  ridden  away  through 
the  bitter  night  to  do  her  duty  in  the  house  of  death.  Of  course 
both  Hilda  and  the  faithful  Berbel  had  their  occupations  as 
usual,  and  talked  over  them  when  they  were  together,  but  the 
time  had  passed  slowly  and  heavily.  Hilda  could  form  no 
clear  conception  of  what  had  take'n  place,  from  the  confused 
account  of  the  groom  who  had  brought  the  news.  The  idea 


GBEIFENSTEIN.  225 

that  her  uncle  Greifenstein  and  her  aunt  Clara  were  both  dead, 
as  well  as  another  unknown  gentleman  who  had  been  with 
them,  was  very  dreadful ;  but  Hilda  knew  so  little  of  death, 
that  the  story  seemed  melancholy  and  weird  to  her  imagination 
rather  than  ghastly  and  vivid  with  realised  horror.  By  no 
effort  of  her  mind  could  she  fancy  how  the  three  looked,  for 
she  had  never  seen  any  one  dead  in  her  whole  life.  She  had 
read  of  violent  deeds  in  history,  but  they  seemed  more  like  ugly 
fairy  stories  than  realities,  and  the  tragedy  of  Greifenstein 
struck  her  in  a  very  similar  light.  It  was  as  though  some  strange 
evil  genius  had  passed  through  the  forest,  scarce  twenty  miles 
from  her  home,  destroying  all  that  he  found  in  his  way.  They 
were  gone,  suddenly,  like  the  light  of  a  candle  extinguished, 
and  she  should  never  see  them  again.  They  had  crossed  the 
boundary  into  the  wonderful  land  beyond,  and  perhaps  from 
where  they  were  now  they  could  see  her  dreaming  about  them, 
and  asking  herself  what  that  great  change  meant  which  only 
takes  place  once  for  each  man  and  each  woman  in  the  world. 
Perhaps  —  Hilda  trembled  at  the  heresy,  but  let  her  thoughts 
run  on  nevertheless,  because  after  all  it  was  only  her  imagina 
tion  that  was  talking  —  perhaps  that  was  the  end,  and  there 
was  nothing  beyond  it.  It  would  be  infinitely  horrible  to  be 
put  out  of  existence  altogether,  without  hope  of  any  life  at  all 
afterwards.  That  might  be  what  was  meant  by  hell,  and 
outer  darkness,  but  upon  this  point  Hilda  was  not  decided. 
She  made  up  her  mind,  however,  after  a  little  more  reflexion, 
that  the  Greifensteins  could  not  possibly  have  been  bad  enough 
to  deserve  to  be  put  out  entirely,  though  she  frankly  owned  to 
herself  that  she  had  never  liked  her  aunt  Clara.  She  was  sorry 
for  her  now,  at  all  events,  and  she  wished  that  she  had  at  least 
made  an  effort  to  be  more  fond  of  her. 

Hilda  tried  to  decide  what  she  should  say  to  Greif  when  she 
met  him.  She  never  doubted  that  he  would  come  to  Sigmund- 
skron,  and  in  her  ignorance  of  formalities  she  almost  dared  to 
hope  that  he  would  stay  with  her  mother  for  a  time.  He  would 
certainly  not  care  to  remain  in  Greifenstein  for  the  present.  If 
indeed  he  should  wish  to  spend  a  few  days  with  his  relations, 
Hilda  foresaw  many  and  great  difficulties,  but  she  was  surprised 
that  such  important  household  questions  as  those  of  bed  and 
board  for  a  possible  gxiest  should  seem  so  insignificant  when  that 
guest  was  to  be  Greif  himself. 


226  GREIFENSTEIN. 

The  real  trouble  lay  in  deciding  what  she  should  say.  It  was 
clear  that  she  could  not  help  looking  pleased  when  he  arrived, 
though  it  would  be  her  duty  to  look  somewhat  sad  and  sorrow 
ful.  Of  course  she  felt  for  him  and  he  knew  it,  but  he  would 
perhaps  expect  her  to  show  it  very  clearly  in  the  first  minute 
and  would  be  hurt  if  she  even  smiled.  It  was  not  easy  not  to 
smile  when  she  saw  Greif  after  a  long  separation.  Perhaps  the 
best  way  to  look  very  mournful  would  be  to  think  that  he  could 
not  marry  her  for  a  long  time,  now,  on  account  of  the  mourn 
ing.  But  then,  Greif  had  finished  his  studies  and  would  hence 
forth  be  always  at  home,  which  in  Hilda's  opinion  would  be 
almost  the  same  thing  as  being  married,  provided  she  could  see 
him  all  the  time. 

Then  she  thought  of  that  strange  warning  she  had  given  him 
when  they  last  parted.  She  had  not  understood  why  she  spoke, 
and  yet  she  had  not  been  able  to  keep  silence.  Surely  this  could 
not  be  what  was  meant.  Besides,  it  was  superstitious  to  believe 
in  such  things,  and  she  had  been  thoughtless  in  yielding  to  the 
impulse.  Greif  was  safe,  at  all  events,  and  she  supposed  that 
everybody's  parents  must  die  some  day,  though  not  necessarily 
in  such  a  strange  way.  Her  own  father  had  been  killed,  too, 
before  she  could  know  him  —  if  she  had  known  him,  she  would 
have  loved  him,  as  Greif  had  loved  the  old  gentleman  who  was 
now  dead. 

Hilda  became  aware  that  her  reflexions  were  growing  more 
and  more  heartless  and  that  they  did  not  help  her  at  all,  espe 
cially  as  she  could  not  communicate  them  to  Berbel.  She 
resolved  not  to  reflect  any  more  for  the  present,  and  applied 
herself  diligently  to  her  household  occupations  until  the  morn 
ing  on  which  she  expected  her  mother  to  return.  And  now  she 
was  not  to  be  alone  any  longer,  for  the  carriage  was  advancing 
up  the  hill  and  she  could  plainly  see  Greif  sitting  beside  the 
baroness  in  the  big  carriage.  She  knew  his  fur  cap,  for  it  was 
the  same  he  had  worn  last  year.  She  gazed  a  few  moments 
longer  at  the  pair,  regretting  that  she  must  be  thought  heartless 
if  she  waved  her  handkerchief  as  a  signal  of  welcome,  and  then 
she  swiftly  descended  the  broken  steps  that  led  down  into  the 
house,  closing  as  well  as  she  could  the  crazy  door  of  the  turret, 
to  keep  out  at  least  a  little  of  the  strong  north  wind. 

"  Berbel !  Berbel !     Mamma  is  coming;  with  Herr  Greif !  "  she 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  227 

cried,  before  she  was  really  within  hearing  of  the  room  where 
Berbel  was  at  work. 

Her  clear  voice  rang  through  the  stone  passages  before  her 
as  she  ran  on,  repeating  the  news  until  Berbel  answered  her 
at  last. 

"  Is  there  anything  for  dinner  ?  "  asked  Hilda  breathlessly,  as 
she  stood  in  the  doorway. 

The  grey-haired  woman  looked  up  from  her  sewing,  over  her 
horn-rimmed  glasses.  She  had  a  hard,  good  face,  with  rough 
brows,  sharp  eyes  and  a  large  mole  upon  her  chin.  She  was 
spotlessly  clean,  and  everything  about  her  was  supernaturally 
neat.  She  was  broad-shouldered,  rather  bony  than  otherwise, 
and  she  moved  as  though  nothing  were  any  trouble  which 
merely  required  exertion. 

"  There  are  potatoes,"  she  answered  laconically,  but  a  strangely 
genial,  half  comical  little  smile  was  twitching  at  the  corners  of 
her  solid  mouth. 

"'Nothing  else?  Oh,  Berbel,  there  must  be  something  else  !  " 
Hilda's  voice  was  full  of  a  sudden  distress,  and  her  face  ex 
hibited  considerable  dismay. 

"I  shall  find  something,"  replied  the  other.  "Better  see 
first  whether  they  are  hungry.  Poor  Herr  Greif  will  not  eat 
much  —  " 

"  No  —  but  only  potatoes,  Berbel !  " 

"Potato  dumplings  are  good  things,"  observed  the  woman. 
"  And  fried  potatoes  with  a  stewed  hare  are  better,"  she  added 
after  a  pause. 

"  Is  there  a  hare,  then  ?  Oh,  Berbel,  you  dear  old  thing,  how 
could  you  frighten  me  in  that  way !  Where  did  you  get  it  ? 
We  have  not  had  one  for  ever  so  long  !  " 

"  Wastei,"  answered  Berbel.  Being  interpreted,  the  name 
signifies  Sebastian. 

"And  Wastei  must  have  got  it  by  poaching  — "  Hilda's 
face  fell. 

"  No  —  the  forester  has  given  him  a  licence  this  year,  and  I 
mended  his  breeches.  There  you  have  the  whole  history." 

Hilda's  spirits  revived  immediately  and  she  broke  into  a 
merry  laugh,  just  as  the  sound  of  the  horses'  bells  was  heard 
jingling  in  castle-yard  below  the  window.  She  ran  down  the 
stairs  to  meet  her  mother  and  Greif.  The  story  of  the  hare  and 


228  GREIFENSTEIN. 

Wastei's  breeches  had  almost  chased  away  her  good  intentions 
to  look  appropriately  sad.  The  hideous  tragedy  of  the  Greifen- 
steins  was  very  far  from  her  simple  young  life. 

The  great  carriage  swung  round  and  drew  up  before  the  door 
of  the  hall,  and  Hilda  was  already  standing  upon  the  low  steps. 
She  had  thrown  back  her  hood  when  she  had  descended  from 
the  battlements,  and  had  not  replaced  it.  Her  glorious  hair 
looked  like  bright  gold  against  the  darkness  of  the  hall  behind 
her,  and  as  the  cloak  fell  from  her  on  each  side,  the  black  of 
her  dress  suddenly  threw  out  by  contrast  the  brilliancy  of  her 
face.  In  another  moment  her  mother  and  she  were  clasped  in 
each  other's  arms,  while  Greif  stood  beside  them  on  the  steps. 

He  closed  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  just  as  hers  were  turning 
toward  him.  This  was  the  woman  he  had  come  to  renounce, 
this  was  she  whose  love  he  could  put  away  at  a  moment's  notice 
for  the  sake  of  an  idea  —  his  heart  beat  violently  and  then  stood 
still,  so  that  he  turned  very  pale.  Her  hand  was  already  in  his, 
and  he  scarcely  dared  to  look  at  her. 

"  Greif  —  are  you  ill  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

He  had  not  seen  her  smile.  He  had  escaped  that,  he  thought. 
But  as  he  looked  up  he  saw  what  was  harder  to  bear  than  any 
look  of  joy  at  his  coming.  She,  who  never  used  to  change  colour, 
was  pale  to  the  lips,  and  in  her  eyes  was  a  look  of  terror  for  him 
which  betrayed  all  her  love,  and  devotion  and  power  of  suffering 
for  him,  in  the  flash  of  an  instant.  She  had  indeed  been  terrified, 
for  he  had  turned  ashy  white  as  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  his  figure 
had  swayed  a  little  unsteadily  as  though  he  had  been  about  to 
fall. 

"Are  you  ill,  Greif?"  she  repeated,  unconsciously  drawing 
him  nearer  to  her. 

"  It  is  nothing.     My  head  turned  for  a  moment,"  he  said. 

Hilda  was  not  satisfied,  but  she  saw  that  whatever  had  been 
the  matter,  he  had  recovered  himself  for  the  present,  at  least,  and 
she  supposed  that  he  was  exhausted  with  the  fatigue  and  grief 
which  had  filled  the  last  days.  She  became  silent  and  preoccu 
pied,  as  they  all  entered  the  hall  together  and  ascended  the  steps 
to  the  sunny  sitting-room  over  the  court.  Then  Frau  von  Sig- 
mundskron  left  her  alone  with  Greif,  on  pretence  of  taking  off 
her  mantle  and  smoothing  her  hair,  but  as  she  went  away  she 
gave  him  a  look  which  signified  that  she  would  not  disturb 
them  for  some  time. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  229 

There  was  the  great  stone  chimney-piece,  just  as  Greif  had 
seen  it  in  his  vision  of  the  meeting,  and  Hilda  sat  down  beside 
it,  as  he  had  fancied  that  she  would.  But  the  room  was  not 
cold,  as  he  had  anticipated,  for  the  fire  was  clear  and  big,  and 
the  sun  streamed  brightly  in  through  the  southern  window.  He 
had  imagined  the  place  chill  and  dreary,  for  he  knew  that  he 
should  need  the  impression  of  dreariness  to  help  him.  Instead, 
it  was  warm  and  sunny,  and  though  Hilda  was  still  a  little  pale, 
her  pallor  did  not  produce  the  effect  he  had  expected.  He  tried 
to  begin,  for  in  spite  of  all,  his  resolution  was  still  unbroken, 
but  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat. 

"  Greif,"  said  Hilda,  looking  up  suddenly  into  his  face.  "  I 
do  not  know  how  to  tell  you  —  I  am  so  sorry,  so  sorry  for  you, 
dear.  I  have  not  the  words,  but  it  is  all  in  my  heart.  You 
understand,  do  you  not?" 

She  had  risen,  seeing  that  he  was  still  standing,  and  she  came 
to  him,  and  clasped  both  her  hands  upon  his  shoulder  and  looked 
up  into  his  eyes.  It  would  have  been  easier  if  she  had  begun  in 
any  other  way  than  that.  With  her  touch  upon  him,  her  eyes 
on  his,  her  breath  and  soft  voice  so  near,  he  could  not  play  cold 
ness.  But  he  was  strong  still. 

His  arms  went  round  her  swiftly  and  pressed  her  to  him,  and 
he  kissed  her  as  he  had  never  kissed  her  before,  three  times  in 
quick  succession.  Then  he  gently  led  her  back  to  her  chair  and 
returned  to  his  own  place,  standing  as  he  had  meant  to  do,  to 
give  himself  more  courage.  She  submitted  wonderingly,  with 
out  understanding  why  he  made  her  sit  down,  and  for  a  few 
seconds  neither  spoke.  At  last  he  turned  away  from  her  and 
began  to  talk,  looking  at  the  window  to  avoid  her  eyes. 

"  Hilda,  a  very  terrible  thing  has  happened,  and  I  must  explain 
it  to  you,  in  order  that  you  may  comprehend  what  I  must  do. 
Will  you  promise  me  to  listen  patiently  and  to  forgive  me  before 
hand  for  all  I  am  going  to  say?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  young  girl  rather  faintly.  The  strong 
presentiment  of  evil  had  come  upon  her  again,  as  it  had  come 
that  day  when  he  was  leaving  Greifenstein.  She  bent  her 
head  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  as  though  not  to 
see  the  blow  that  was  to  descend,  though  she  must  feel  its 
weight.  It  was  all  instinctive,  for  not  the  faintest  thought  of 
what  he  was  going  to  say  could  ever  have  suggested  itself  to 
her  mind. 


230  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  Yes,"  said  Greif ,  "  it  is  very  terrible.  But  I  have  come  here 
to  say  it  and  I  must  say  it  all.  You  know  what  has  happened. 
My  poor  mother  is  dead,  and  those  who  murdered  her  have 
killed  themselves  —  my  father  and  his  half-brother.  You  did 
not  know  that  I  had  an  uncle  ?  " 

Hilda  shook  her  head,  looking  up  for  a  moment. 

"  He  was  a  bad  man,  too,"  continued  Greif.  "  He  had  been 
an  officer  and  had  betrayed  his  trust  in  the  times  of  revolution, 
was  sentenced  and  imprisoned ;  he  escaped  from  the  fortress, 
made  his  way  to  South  America,  and  lived  there  for  forty  years 
in  exile,  until  the  amnesty  was  proclaimed.  He  was  not  Greif- 
enstein,  he  was  Rieseneck,  half-brother  to  my  father  by  the 
mother's  side  and  younger  than  he.  That  was  bad  enough, 
however.  It  was  the  reason  why  my  father  lived  here  in  the 
forest  so  quietly.  He  was  afraid  that  people  would  remember 
he  was  Rieseneck's  brother.  You  see,  the  affair  made  a  great 
noise  at  the  time.  Your  mother  knows  all  about  it.  Well,  it 
was  hard  enough,  as  I  say,  to  have  such  a  disgrace  in  the  family. 
We  did  not  know  that  Rieseneck  had  a  son  —  1  found  that  my 
best  friend  —  his  name  is  Rex  —  is  he." 

"  How  strange  !  "  exclaimed  Hilda.  "  Why  is  his  name 
Rex?" 

"  It  is  not,  exactly.  He  and  his  father  called  themselves  so  in 
order  not  to  be  identified.  It  was  almost  necessary  for  them  — 
as  it  may  be  for  me  now." 

"For  you?"  asked  Hilda  in  the  utmost  astonishment.  "You 
would  change  your  name  —  why  ?  " 

Greif  stared  at  her.  She  seemed  not  to  understand  at  all, 
and  yet  he  had  gone  into  Rieseneck's  story  merely  to  make  his 
own  seem  more  terrible  by  comparison. 

"  You  must  know  that,  in  the  world,  such  calamities  as  have 
befallen  me  leave  a  mark,  a  stain  even  upon  the  innocent,"  said 
Greif.  "  The  world  looks  askance  at  the  sons  of  murderers." 

"  And  are  you  afraid  of  the  world,  Greif  ? "  asked  Hilda. 
"  That  is  not  like  you.  For  the  Riesenecks,  well,  I  understand 
—  he  was  disgraced,  condemned,  imprisoned.  But  you!  It  is 
like  a  dreadful  story  of  the  dark  ages,  but  there  is  no  shame  in 
it,  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  It  is  terrible,  awful,  appalling, 
but  you  can  hold  your  head  as  high  as  any  one.  Do  you  sup 
pose  it  is  the  first  tragedy  that  ever  occurred  in  your  family  or 
in  mine  ?  Did  not  old  Sigmund  strangle  his  own  brother  with 


GREIFENSTEIN.  231 

his  hands,  here  in  this  house,  seven  hundred  years  ago,  and  am 
I  ashamed  to  call  him  my  forefather  ?  " 

"  That  is  very  different  from  what  has  happened  to  me," 
answered  Greif.  "  You  cannot  understand,  but  the  world  judges 
according  to  its  light.  If  I,  the  son  of  a  man  who  murdered 
his  wife  and  killed  himself,  were  to  present  myself  to  any  man 
of  my  own  rank  and  ask  him  for  his  daughter  in  marriage  I 
should  receive  a  refusal,  and  perhaps  an  indignant  one.  I  am 
not  considered  a  fit  person  to  marry  an  innocent  girl  of  my 
class,  I  am  stamped  with  a  stained  name,  branded  with  the  sign 
of  others'  crimes,  ruined  before  my  life  is  begun,  cut  off  from 
happiness,  from  ambition,  from  you  —  O  Hilda!  that  is  what  I 
came  to  tell  you  —  I  have  spoken  very  badly  —  it  is  best  to  say 
it  clearly.  My  beloved,  this  has  taken  you  from  me,  and  me 
from  you,  and  has  cast  me  adrift  from  all  that  remained,  from 
the  greatest  and  best  of  all.  If  I  could  dare  to  rnarry  you  now, 
to  give  you  my  miserable  name,  to  take  you  to  the  home  that 
is  darkened  by  so  many  deaths  —  I  should  be  the  last  and 
lowest  of  men  !  It  is  of  no  use,  for  I  feel  it  —  the  only  honour 
able  thing  left  for  me  to  do,  in  so  much  dishonour,  is  to  leave 
you  for  ever  and  at  once.  If  I  were  willing  still  to  make  you 
my  wife  you  ought  to  despise  me,  and  trample  the  memory  of 
my  love  under  foot  as  a  vile  thing.  O  Hilda,  Hilda !  it  is  death 
to  me,  but  it  is  best  for  you." 

The  blow  had  fallen,  and  Hilda  sat  quite  still  in  her  place, 
covering  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  as  she  had  done  at  first.  All 
through  his  long  preamble,  she  had  felt  that  there  was  some 
thing  dreadful  to  come,  and  now  it  had  come  indeed,  in  the 
shape  she  least  expected,  in  the  shape  which  of  all  others  she 
would  most  have  feared.  She  did  not  move,  but  the  soft,  fresh 
colour  faded  from  her  face,  till  it  was  whiter  than  the  white 
hand  she  held  before  it.  '  Greif  looked  at  her,  and  his  head 
swam.  He  thought  neither  of  her  suffering  nor  of  his  own,  as 
the  words  came  fast  and  incoherent  from  his  pale  lips.  He 
went  on,  insisting,  repeating,  lamenting  with  the  vehemence 
of  a  passionate  man  who  has  overcome  all  that  is  gentlest  in 
himself  and  takes  a  savage  delight  in  rending  his  own  wounds. 

"  It  is  done,  and  you  know,  now,"  he  cried  bitterly.  "  I  have 
fought  against  myself,  against  every  one,  to  do  this  thing  — 
do  you  think  it  is  easy  to  give  up  such  a  love  as  you  have  been 
to  me  ?  And  yet,  I  would  not  take  you,  no,  not  if  you  pursued 


232  GBEIFENSTEIN. 

me  across  the  world  —  what  right  have  I  to  you?  The  right 
of  loving  better  than  anything  God  has  made  was  ever  loved 
before?  It  is  gone,  that  right,  gone  with  my  name,  gone  with 
all  I  once  was,  buried  with  my  father  and  my  mother  in  the  old 
place  beyond  Greifenstein.  Right?  I  have  no  rights  any 
longer  —  neither  to  love,  nor  to  hate,  nor  to  be  happy  in  the 
thought  of  love,  nor  of  Hilda.  And  yet,  in  all  the  years  to 
come,  you  will  be  with  me.  I  cannot  give  up  the  right  to 
remember  you,  and  to  think  of  your  dear  eyes.  Ah,  if  it  were 
but  my  own  fault,  how  easy  it  would  be  to  bear !  I  wish  I  had 
wronged  you  —  you  would  thrust  me  from  you  —  it  would  help 
me  —  at  least,  if  I  had  done  you  harm,  I  could  die  for  it,  and 
that  would  be  so  easy  and  simple,  and  would  end  all  so  well. 
I  wish  I  had  done  some  hideous,  nameless  deed  with  my  own 
hands,  that  I  might  be  driven  out  by  men,  and  forced  to  leave 
you  by  others  stronger  than  1 1  Anything,  anything,  anything 
but  this ! " 

He  bent  his  head  against  the  cold  stones  of  the  high  chimney- 
piece,  and  beat  his  brow  against  the  hewn  carvings  of  it,  closing 
his  eyelids  over  his  dry  and  smarting  eyes,  wishing  that  every 
moment  might  be  the  last  of  his  wretched  existence,  and  at  the 
same  time  miserably  conscious  that  his  strength  would  outlast 
all  his  sufferings.  He  had  meant  to  be  so  calm  and  gentle,  he 
had  planned  how  he  would  gradually  explain  all  to  Hilda  and 
break  the  shock  for  her,  he  had  thought  that  when  it  was  over, 
he  could  firmly  say  one  solemn  good-bye,  and  go  back  to  his 
home  alone.  He  had  not  known  what  love  could  do,  nor  how 
he  should  be  tortured  and  wounded  and  bruised  in  the  conflict. 
But  yet  he  was  strong  and  victorious.  His  dignity  and  self- 
respect  had  been  sorely  shaken  in  the  fight,  and  he  had  not 
found  the  calm  and  tactful  speeches  he  had  planned  before; 
but  in  spite  of  every  one,  and  chiefly  in  spite  of  his  own  heart, 
he  had  bravely  done  what  he  had  come  to  do.  The  victory  was 
more  agonising  than  any  defeat  could  have  been,  but  it  was 
victory,  notwithstanding. 

Manlike,  in  his  utmost  distress,  he  had  forgotten  Hilda's  self 
in  the  overwhelming  thoughts  of  her  that  rushed  through  his 
confused  brain.  Her  hands  had  fallen  upon  her  knee  and  she 
sat  like  a  statue  in  the  deep  old  chair,  whiter  than  any  marble, 
her  colourless  lips  parted,  her  wonderful  eyes  fixed  upon  him  in 
a  glassy  stare.  Even  her  hair  seemed  to  have  lost  its  golden 


GREIFENSTEIN.  233 

sheen,  as  though  it  were  suddenly  dead  or  turning  into  stone. 
And  yet  she  was  not  unconscious.  A  very  strong  and  perfect 
organisation  rarely  breaks  down  under  the  first  shock  it  receives, 
no  matter  how  violent.  Hilda  was  not  only  conscious,  she  was 
even  able  to  speak.  .  . 

"  Greif !  "     She  spoke  his  name  clearly,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  started,  for  he  had  almost  forgotten  her  presence.  He 
lifted  his  haggard  face  and  turned  towards  her,  supporting  him 
self  with  one  hand  on  the  chimney-piece. 

"  Do  you  mean  all  you  have  said  ?  "  she  asked  very  slowly,  as 
though  each  word  cost  her  an  effort. 

"  I  mean  it  all,  Hilda,"  he  answered,  his  tones  still  trembling 
with  the  violence  of  the  storm  that  had  passed  through  him. 

"  You  mean  that  because  your  father  did  this  deed,  you  are 
ashamed  to  marry  me? " 

"More  than  ashamed  —  " 

"  And  you  will  go  away  and  leave  me  for  ever,  for  the  sake 
of  this  idea  alone  ?  " 

"Ah,  Hilda  —  you  have  not  understood  —  " 

"  I  have  understood  all,  because  I  love  you,  and  now  I  know 
that  you  love  me  with  all  your  heart  —  " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  my  beloved !  God  bless  you  for  seeing  the 
truth  —  " 

"  Do  not  thank  me  —  " 

She  caught  her  breath,  then  with  a  swift  movement  she  was 
on  her  feet,  standing  beside  him.  The  glassy  stare  was  gone 
from  her  eyes,  and  they  shone  with  a  blue  light  like  fire.  Her 
strong  white  hands  suddenly  laid  hold  of  his  wrists  and  held 
him  firmly. 

"  Do  not  thank  me,  Greif  —  or  thank  me,  if  you  will  —  as  you 
please.  I  will  not  let  you  go." 

There  was  a  power  in  her  tone  which  struck  him  with  amaze 
ment,  a  concentrated,  unrelenting,  almost  furious  energy  that 
startled  him.  He  had  expected  tears,  protestations,  laments ; 
he  had  thought  that  she  might  faint  away,  that  the  sight  of  her 
sufferings  would  treble  his  own.  But  he  had  not  expected  the 
short  sharp  outburst  of  a  passion  as  strong  as  his,  or  stronger, 
he  had  not  foreseen  or  guessed  that  this  simple  girl,  brought  up 
so  far  from  the  world,  would  take  him  by  the  hands  and  hold 
him,  and  tell  him  that  she  would  not  let  him  go,  with  an  accent 
of  determination  that  might  have  staggered  the  strongest  man. 


234  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  You  will  not  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  aghast  at  the  prospect  of  a 
battle  worse  than  the  first. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  still  grasping  his  wrists  and  gazing  into 
his  face  with  her  fiery  eyes.  "  I  will  not,  and  I  know  that  I  am 
strong.  I  feel  it." 

During  nearly  a  minute  neither  spoke,  but  Hilda's  hold  did 
not  relax  for  a  second,  and  her  lids  did  not  once  veil  the  inten 
sity  of  her  look.  Even  if  Greif  had  possessed  a  wider  experience 
of  women  than  he  had,  it  would  not  have  helped  him  much. 
He  was  utterly  at  a  loss.  His  manly  nature  would  have  provided 
him  with  weapons  to  rid  himself  of  a  woman  of  coarser  instincts, 
even  if  he  had  loved  her  to  distraction,  provided  he  had  felt 
that  he  must  part  from  her.  He  would  have  felt  that  he  could 
dominate  a  baser  affection  and  force  it  down  to  his  will,  by 
sheer  strength  of  purpose,  no  matter  at  what  cost ;  but  he  was 
met  here  by  something  he  had  never  understood,  and  he  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  The  childlike  innocence  of  Hilda's  maiden 
love  gave  an  extraordinary  character  to  her  passion.  The  ab 
sence  of  anything  like  the  common  expressions  of  love  made  the 
transcendent  power  of  what  moved  her  stand  out  in  magnificent 
grandeur.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  dreamt  that  her  quiet  and 
undemonstrative  affection  was  capable  of  anything  but  a  calm 
and  beautiful  development.  He  had  not  guessed  the  existence 
of  such  resistless  force  as  blazed  from  her  eyes,  he  had  believed 
her  only  capable  of  receiving,  he  had  not  imagined  that  she  was 
strong  enough  to  take  boldly  what  was  refused  her.  The  radi 
ance  of  a  spotless  soul,  burning  in  the  white-heat  of  a  passion 
as  pure  as  itself,  dazzled  and  awed  him.  As  he  looked,  he  felt 
as  though  he  were  held  in  the  grasp  of  a  splendid,  wrathful 
angel,  who  disputed  the  possession  of  him,  not  with  himself,  but 
with  the  opposing  powers  of  evil. 

Tt  is  amazing  that  in  such  a  case  he  should  still  have  found 
strength  and  courage  to  resist  this  last  great  trial  of  his  sincerity. 
Most  men  would  have  yielded  and  would  have  accepted  their 
fate.  But  though  Greif  was  young,  and  not  very  wise,  he  had 
stern  and  obstinate  blood  in  his  veins,  and  he  was  acting  under 
the  strongest  conviction  that  had  ever  possessed  him.  Knowing 
her  only  as  he  had  known  her  before,  the  fair  and  innocent  idol 
of  his  boyish  heart,  he  had  felt  that  he  could  never  allow  her  to 
take  his  darkened  name.  In  the  beginning  his  intention  had 
been  very  honourable,  in  his  struggle  with  himself  it  had  grown 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  235 

high  and  chivalrous,  but  in  the  face  of  such  opposition  as  he  met 
from  her  mother  and  now  from  herself,  it  had  assumed  propor 
tions  that  bordered  upon  the  grotesque.  And  yet  as  he  looked 
now  upon  her  noble  face,  illuminated  and  radiant  with  a  beauty 
almost  too  pure  for  him  to  understand,  he  felt  even  more  than 
before  that  such  a  creature  could  never  be  allowed  to  ally  her 
self  with  one  whose  name  was  a  reproach  among  men.  He  did 
not  know  how  to  oppose  her,  but  he  knew  that  she  must  be 
opposed,  at  any  cost,  for  her  own  sake. 

His  eyes  fell  before  her  gaze,  and  his  hands  trembled  ner 
vously  in  her  grasp,  so  that  she  began  to  think  that  he  was 
yielding,  whereas  he  was  in  reality  making  a  supreme  effort  to 
concentrate  his  courage  and  to  keep  the  mastery  of  himself. 
While  he  seemed  to  be  sinking  to  her  will,  he  was  gathering 
his  strength,  saying  in  his  heart  that  if  he  lost  this  battle  he 
should  never  hold  up  his  head  again. 

The  sun  streamed  broadly  through  the  diamond  panes  of 
the  casement  upon  the  patched  and  faded  carpet,  creeping 
slowly  along  his  accustomed  path  in  which  the  hours  were 
marked,  as  on  a  dial,  by  threadbare  seams  and  the  leaves  and 
flowers  of  a  half-obliterated  design.  In  the  huge  chimney  the 
logs  burned  steadily  with  a  low,  roaring  sound,  and  the  shabby 
furniture  of  the  place  seemed  to  doze  lazily  in  the  warmth,  as 
old  men  do  whose  strength  is  far  spent.  And  in  the  midst  of 
the  commonplace  scene  a  drama  was  being  enacted,  less  horrible 
in  outward  appearance  than  the  tragedy  of  Greifenstein,  but 
scarcely  less  fearful  to  the  two  young  hearts  that  beat  so  fiercely 
and  full  of  life. 

The  sunlight  moved  but  a  very  little,  as  far  as  would  show 
the  passing  of  a  minute,  perhaps,  and  then  Greif  looked  up 
once  more  and  again  met  the  gaze  of  Hilda's  eyes. 


236  GKEIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTEE  XIX. 

"  HILDA,  I  will  die  for  you,  but  I  cannot  marry  you."  Greif 
spoke  quietly,  but  with  the  utmost  decision. 

"  I  have  said  that  I  will  not  let  you  go,"  she  answered,  "  and 
I  will  not.  You  are  my  life,  and  I  will  not  die  —  I  should  if 
you  left  me." 

"  You  will  forget  me,"  he  said. 

"  Forget  you !  "  Her  voice  rang  through  the  room.  She 
dropped  his  hands  with  a  passionate  gesture  and  turned  away 
from  him,  making  one  or  two  steps  towards  the  window.  Then 
she  came  back  and  stood  before  him. 

"  Forget  you  !  "  she  exclaimed  again.  "  You  do  not  know 
what  you  are  saying.  You  do  not  know  me,  if  you  can  say  it. 
Do  you  think,  because  I  am  a  girl,  that  I  am  weak  ?  I  tell  you 
I  am  stronger  than  you,  and  I  tell  you  that  you  are  mad.  Do 
you  think  that  if  I  would  have  shed  the  last  drop  of  my  blood 
to  save  you  from  pain  yesterday,  I  love  you  less  to-day  ?  I  love 
you  a  thousand  times  more  for  what  you  would  do,  but  you  shall 
not  do  it.  I  love  you  as  no  woman  can  love,  who  has  not  lived 
long  life.  And  you  say  that  you  can  go  away,  and  that  I  shall 
forget  you !  As  I  am  a  Christian  woman,  if  I  forget  you,  may 
God  forget  me,  now  and  in  the  hour  of  death !  I  could  not  if 
I  would.  And  you  say  that  you  will  leave  me  —  for  what? 
Because  your  father  has  done  a  terrible  deed,  and  has  taken 
his  own  life.  For  a  name  —  for  a  nothing  else!  What  is  a 
name  to  me,  compared  with  you  yourself?  I  love  you  so,  that 
if  you  had  yourself  done  the  most  monstrous  crime,  I  would  not 
leave  you,  not  if  we  were  to  die  a  shameful  death  together. 
And  you  would  leave  me,  for  my  own  good !  For  my  advan 
tage —  oh,  I  would  not  have  heaven  itself  without  you.  Forget ! 
What  would  there  be  left  to  remember,  if  you  were  taken? 
The  emptiness  of  the  place  where  you  were,  the  wide  emptiness 
that  all  heaven  could  never  fill !  Your  name  —  do  you  love  it 
better  than  me  ?  But  I  know  that  you  love  me,  though  you 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  237 

are  mad.  Then  put  your  name  away,  cast  it  from  you  to 
whomsoever  will  have  it.  Do  you  think  that  Hilda  von  Sig- 
mundskron  cares  for  names,  or  wants  new  ones  ?  Am  I  a 
peasant's  child,  to  sigh  for  a  coronet  and  to  give  you  up  because 
you  have  put  it  off?  Be  what  you  will,  you  are  only  Greif  to 
me,  and  Greif,  only,  means  more  to  me  than  heaven  or  earth 
and  all  that  are  in  them.  You  shake  your  head  —  what  would 
you  say  ?  That  it  is  not  true  ?  My  love  needs  no  oaths  to  bind 
it,  nor  to  prove  it.  You  can  see  it  in  my  face,  for  I  know  that 
it  is  there.  Yes  —  you  cannot  meet  my  eyes  —  honest  as  you 
are,  and  good,  and  noble,  and  true-hearted  as  any  man  that  ever 
drew  breath.  Do  you  know  why?  You  dare  not  —  you  who 
dare  anything  else.  I  love  you  the  more  for  having  dared  this 
—  but  you  shall  not  do  it.  I  will  not  let  you  go,  I  will  not, 
never,  never ! " 

Greif  had  turned  his  head  away  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  chimney  almost  in  the  same  attitude  he  had  taken  from  the 
first.  She  had  spoken  quickly  and  passionately  and  he  had  not 
been  able  to  answer  anything  she  said,  for  she  did  not  pause, 
replying  herself  to  the  questions  she  asked  and  giving  him  no 
time  to  oppose  her. 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  said,  half  bitterly,  half  tenderly.  "You 
will  not  forget  me  any  more  than  I  can  forget  you.  It  will 
make  it  harder  to  say  good-bye." 

"  It  shall  never  be  said,  until  one  of  us  two  is  dying,  Greif." 

"  We  cannot  change  our  fate,  though  we  love  ever  so  dearly," 
he  answered.  "  Think,  Hilda,  if  you  took  me  as  I  am,  what 
you  might  suffer  in  after  years,  what  our  children  would  surely 
suffer  when  they  went  out  into  the  world,  and  the  world  began 
to  whisper  that  they  were  the  grandsons  of  that  Greifen- 
stein  — " 

"  What  is  the  world  to  us,  dear  ?  And  as  for  our  sons,  if 
God  sends  us  any,  I  know  that  if  they  grow  up  to  be  brave 
gentlemen,  loyal  and  true,  the  world  will  leave  them  in  peace." 

"  The  world  is  a  hard  place  — " 

"  Then  why  have  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  I  have  been  happy, 
here  in  the  forest,  for  so  many  years  —  could  you  not  be  happy 
here  with  me?" 

"  I  should  still  be  my  father's  son  —  I  should  still  be  Greif  - 
enstein." 

"  Would  I  have  you  anything  else  ?  " 


238  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"Hilda,  it  is  impossible  !  "  cried  Greif  with  suddenly  renewed 
energy.  "  I  have  said  all.  Must  I  say  it  again  ?  " 

"  If  you  were  to  say  it  a  thousand  times,  it  would  not  make  it 
more  true.  But  I  will  listen  to  all  you  tell  me,  if  you  like." 

With  a  calmness  that  showed  how  certain  she  felt  of  her 
victory,  Hilda  resumed  her  seat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire 
place,  folded  her  hands  together,  and  leaning  her  head  against 
the  back  of  the  easy-chair,  watched  him  with  half-closed  eyes. 
She  was  not  tired,  and  would  very  probably  be  able  to  sustain 
the  contest  longer  than  he.  After  the  first  shock  of  the 
announcement  was  over,  under  which  she  had  suffered  more  in 
one  moment  than  would  have  sufficed  to  fill  a  week  with  agonis 
ing  pain,  the  strong  impulse  to  hold  him  had  come  upon  her 
and  her  elastic  strength  had  been  roused  to  its  fullest  energy. 
But  the  memory  of  that  one  moment  of  agony  was  enough  to 
make  her  guess  what  she  would  feel  if  he  left  her. 

Arguments  repeated  a  second  time  rarely  seem  so  forcible  as 
when  they  are  first  heard.  Painfully  and  conscientiously  Greif 
recapitulated  his  reasons,  trying  to  speak  coldly  and  concisely, 
exerting  himself  to  the  utmost  and  summoning  all  the  skill  he 
could  command  in  order  to  state  his  case  convincingly.  Hilda 
could  not  have  put  the  idea  that  possessed  him  to  a  more  cruel 
test  than  this.  It  began  to  dawn  even  upon  himself  that  he 
was  in  pursuit  of  a  chimera,  and  the  necessity  for  the  enormous 
self-sacrifice,  upon  which  he  insisted,  was  breaking  down  in  the 
face  of  such  a  determined  opposition  on  the  part  of  those  who 
were  more  interested  than  himself.  Doggedly  and  persistently 
he  continued,  nevertheless,  fighting  his  love  as  though  it  had 
been  a  devil,  thrusting  Hilda's  from  his  thoughts  as  though  it 
had  been  an  evil  temptation,  savagely  determined  not  to  part 
with  his  belief  in  what  he  took  for  his  duty.  It  was  a  strange 
sight,  and  would  have  afforded  material  for  reflexion  to  an  older 
and  wiser  person  than  Hilda. 

"  That  is  all  I  have  to  say,"  he  concluded.  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  cannot  say  it  more  clearly.  You  know  what  it  costs  me 
to  repeat  it  all." 

An  expression  of  intense  pain  passed  over  his  face,  and  he 
turned  away  in  order  to  hide  it  from  Hilda.  He  was  hardly 
able  to  make  his  strained  lips  pronounce  the  last  words. 

"  I  am  not  convinced,"  said  Hilda  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"  No  eloquence  in  the  world  would  convince  me  that  you  and  I 


GREIFENSTEIK.  239 

should  sacrifice  our  lives  for  an  idea,  merely  to  save  ourselves 
from  the  possibility  of  a  few  ill-natured  remarks  hereafter. 
That  is  all  it  comes  to  in  the  end.  I  will  tell  you  the  history  of 
this  idea." 

She  seemed  calmer  than  ever,  but  the  light  had  not  faded 
from  her  eyes,  and  Greif  felt  that  she  was  ready  to  spring  upon 
him  in  an  instant,  to  grasp  his  hands  in  hers  and  to  say  again 
that  she  would  not  let  him  go.  He  glanced  nervously  towards 
her,  and  the  look  of  suffering  returned  to  his  face. 

"  The  history  is  this,"  she  said.  "  When  the  dreadful  thing 
happened,  you  thought  of  me.  Then  it  seemed  to  you  that  you 
should  free  me  from  our  engagement.  That  seemed  hard  to 
you,  because  you  love  me  so  much  —  it  was  so  hard  that  it  took 
all  your  strength  to  make  the  resolution.  You  have  spoken  to 
my  mother  and  to  me.  Now,  I  ask  you  whether  my  mother,  at 
least,  is  not  old  enough  to  judge  what  is  right  ?  Did  she  agree 
with  you,  and  tell  you  that  you  should  give  me  up?" 

"  No  —  she  did  all  she  could  to  persuade  me  —  " 

"  Of  course,"  interrupted  Hilda.  "  Of  course  she  did.  Now 
shall  I  tell  you  why  you  will  not  allow  yourself  to  be  persuaded, 
and  why  you  insist  on  ruining  your  life  as  well  as  mine  ?  " 

She  rose  again,  gently  this  time,  and  came  and  stood  beside 
him.  He  turned  his  head  away  as  though  it  hurt  him,  and  as 
she  spoke  she  could  see  only  his  short,  bright  curling  hair. 

"  You  will  not  be  persuaded,  because  it  was  so  hard  for  you 
to  make  the  resolution  at  first,  that  you  believe  it  must  be  right 
in  spite  of  every  other  right,  and  you  would  sacrifice  yourself 
and  me  for  an  idea  which  is  strong  only  because  it  hurt  you  to 
accept  it  at  first.  Everything  you  have  done  and  said  is  brave, 
noble,  generous  —  but  you  have  gone  too  far  —  you  have  lost 
sight  of  the  true  truth  in  pursuing  a  truth  that  was  true  yester 
day.  It  never  was  your  duty  to  do  more  than  offer  to  set  me 
free.  And  as  for  the  name,  Greif  dear,  —  I  have  heard  that 
such  things  are  done  —  would  you,  if  it  pleases  you  —  that  is,  if 
it  would  help  you  to  forget  —  would  you  take  mine,  darling,  in 
stead  of  letting  me  take  yours  ?  Perhaps  it  would  make  it  easier 
—  you  are  only  Greif  to  me,  but  perhaps  if  you  could  be  Greif 
Sigmundskron  to  yourself,  and  live  here,  and  never  go  to  Greif- 
enstein  nor  think  of  it  again  —  perhaps,  my  beloved,  I  could 
help  you  to  forget  it  all,  to  the  very  name  that  pains  you  so." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  pressed  her  cheek 


240  GREIFENSTEIN. 

softly  against  his  curls  as  she  spoke  the  last  words,  though  she 
could  not  see  his  face.  The  accents  were  so  low  and  tender 
that  her  voice  sounded  like  soft  music  breathed  into  his  ear. 

«  No  —  no  !  I  must  never  do  it ! "  he  tried  to  say,  but  the 
words  were  very  indistinct. 

Hilda  felt  him  move  nervously,  and  she  saw  that  he  was 
grasping  the  chimney-piece  with  both  hands  as  though  to  sup 
port  himself  by  it.  In  another  moment  his  broad  shoulders 
seemed  to  heave  and  then  shrink  together.  He  staggered  and 
almost  fell  to  the  ground,  though  Hilda  did  her  best  to  hold 
him.  With  a  great  effort  he  gained  the  chair  in  which  she  had 
sat  and  fell  back  in  it.  His  eyes  were  closed  and  the  lids  were 
blue,  while  his  tightly  compressed  lips  moved  as  though  he  were 
biting  them. 

Hilda  knelt  beside  him  and  took  his  cold  hands.  The  colour 
was  all  gone  from  her  face,  for  she  was  terribly  frightened. 

"  Greif,  Greif !  "  she  cried  in  anguish.  "  What  is  it,  my  be 
loved  ?  Speak,  darling  —  do  not  look  like  that !  " 

"I  am  in  great  pain,"  he  answered,  not  opening  his  eyes,  but 
faintly  trying  to  press  her  fingers. 

She  saw  that  he  was  ill,  and  that  his  suffering  had  nothing 
to  do  with  his  previous  emotion.  She  opened  the  door  quickly 
and  called  for  help.  Her  mother's  room  was  very  near  and 
Frau  von  Sigmundskron  appeared  immediately. 

"Greif  is  ill  —  dying  perhaps!"  exclaimed  Hilda,  dragging 
her  into  the  little  sitting-room  to  the  young  man's  side. 

The  baroness  leaned  over  him  anxiously,  and  at  the  touch  of 
a  strange  hand  his  purple  lids  opened  slowly  and  he  looked  up 
into  her  face. 

"  It  is  my  head  —  in  the  back,"  he  succeeded  in  saying. 

Greif  had  fallen  in  harness,  fighting  his  battle  with  the  mor 
bid  energy  of  a  man  already  ill.  To  the  very  end  he  had  held 
his  position,  resisting  even  that  last  tender  appeal  Hilda  had 
made  to  him,  but  the  strain  upon  his  nerves  had  been  too  great. 
He  was  strong,  indeed,  but  he  was  young  and  not  yet  toughened 
into  that  strange  material  of  which  men  of  the  world  are  made. 
The  loss  of  sleep,  the  deadly  impression  made  upon  him  by  the 
death  of  his  father  and  mother,  the  terrible  struggle  he  had 
sustained  with  himself,  all  had  combined  together  to  bring 
about  the  crisis.  At  first  it  was  but  a  shooting  pain  in  the  head, 
so  sharp  as  to  make  his  features  contract.  Then  it  came  again 


GREIFENSTEIN.  241 

and  again,  till  it  left  him  no  breathing  space,  and  he  sank  down 
overcome  by  physical  torture,  but  firm  in  his  intention  as  he 
had  been  in  the  beginning.  It  was  all  over,  and  he  would  not 
argue  his  case  again  for  many  a  long  day. 

"Take  me  home  —  I  am  very  ill,"  he  gasped,  as  the  baroness 
tried  to  feel  his  pulse. 

But  she  shook  her  head,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  too  late. 

"You  must  stay  here  until  you  are  better,"  she  answered 
softly.  "  The  jolting  of  the  carriage  would  hurt  you." 

He  closed  his  eyes  again,  unable  to  speak,  far  less  to  discuss 
the  matter.  The  mother  and  daughter  whispered  together  and 
then  both  left  the  room,  casting  a  last  anxious  glance  at  Greif 
as  he  lay  almost  unconscious  with  pain. 

Great  was  the  consternation  of  Berbel  when  she  heard  that 
the  young  lord  of  Greifenstein  had  suddenly  fallen  ill  in  the 
house,  but  she  was  not  a  woman  to  waste  words  when  time 
pressed.  There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done.  Greif  must 
have  Hilda's  room  and  Hilda  must  take  up  her  quarters  with 
her  mother.  His  carriage  must  fetch  the  physician  from  the 
nearest  town,  and  bring  such  things  as  might  be  necessary.  To 
Berbel's  mind  everything  seemed  already  organised,  and  before 
any  one  had  time  to  make  a  remark  she  had  set  about  arrang 
ing  matters  to  her  own  satisfaction.  There  was  only  one  diffi 
culty  in  the  way,  and  that  was  Greif  himself,  who,  in  spite  of 
his  acute  suffering  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  submitting 
to  an  illness  at  Sigmundskron. 

In  the  first  moment  the  pain  had  altogether  overcome  him, 
but  he  gradually  became  so  much  accustomed  to  it  as  to  be  able 
to  think  more  connectedly.  The  idea  of  remaining  where  he 
was  seemed  intolerable.  To  be  taken  care  of  by  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron,  to  be  under  the  same  roof  with  Hilda,  would  be 
to  give  up  the  contest  for  which  he  had  sacrificed  so  much.  He 
did  not  understand  that  his  mind  would  act  very  differently 
when  he  had  recovered,  and  that  much  which  seemed  disagree 
able  at  present,  might  be  attractive  then. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  without  assistance,  and  he  saw  that  he 
was  alone.  Hilda  had  gone  in  one  direction  and  her  mother  in 
another  in  search  of  something  to  alleviate  his  suffering.  To 
get  out  of  the  house  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  In  the  court 
there  was  the  groom  who  had  driven  him,  still  rubbing  down 
his  horses  and  setting  things  to  rights  before  going  inside  to 


242  GREIFENSTEIN. 

warm  himself.  The  man  was  the  same  who  had  brought  Greif 
the  news  at  Schwarzburg,  a  devoted  fellow,  born  and  bred  on 
the  estate,  unlike  the  house  servants  who  had  been  changed  so 
often. 

"  Karl,"  said  Greif,  going  up  to  him,  "  you  must  harness  and 
drive  me  back  to  Greifenstein  at  once.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  but 
I  am  too  ill  to  stay  here.  I  will  walk  down  the  road  —  come 
after  me  as  soon  as  you  can." 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  obey  the  simple  order. 
Karl  looked  surprised  but  lost  no  time,  especially  as  Greif  was 
already  going  out  of  the  gate.  In  a  trice  the  collars  were  on 
the  horses  again,  the  traces  hitched,  the  reins  unwound,  and 
Karl  was  seated  upon  the  box.  He  was  glad  for  himself,  though 
he  thought  it  a  very  long  pull  for  the  horses.  The  road  went 
downhill  over  most  of  the  way,  however,  and  Karl  reflected  that 
when  his  master  was  once  in  the  carriage  behind  him,  he  could 
drive  as  slowly  as  he  pleased.  Just  as  he  was  ready,  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron  and  Hilda  appeared  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
hall,  both  looking  pale  and  anxious.  They  had  found  Greif 
gone  from  the  sitting-room  and  had  at  first  imagined  that  he 
had  lost  his  way  in  the  house ;  but  Hilda's  quick  ears  caught 
the  sounds  that  came  from  the  court  and  she  knew  that  the 
groom  was  putting  the  horses  in. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Hilda,  addressing  the  groom.  "  Why 
have  you  harnessed  again  ?  " 

"  The  merciful  lord  has  ordered  it,"  returned  Karl,  lifting  his 
military  cap  with  one  hand  while  he  held  the  reins  with  the 
other.  "The  merciful  lord  has  walked  down  the  road,  and 
I  am  to  overtake  him." 

Therewith  Karl  turned  his  pair  neatly  and  the  horses  trotted 
slowly  towards  the  gate. 

"  Stop,  stop ! "  cried  Hilda,  running  down  the  steps  arid  fol 
lowing  him,  while  her  mother  came  after  her  more  slowly. 

Karl  drew  up  and  looked  back. 

"  Herr  von  Greifenstein  is  very  ill,"  the  girl  said.  "  He  will 
never  be  able  to  drive  alone  so  far  —  indeed  he  ought  to  stay 
here  and  you  should  go  for  the  doctor." 

She  was  so  much  confused  that  she  hardly  knew  what  to  say, 
when  her  mother  joined  her,  calmer  and  more  sensible. 

"You  say  that  he  went  out  of  the  gate.  How  long  ago?" 
inquired  the  elder  lady. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  243 

"  It  may  be  five  minutes." 

"  Did  he  say  anything  besides  ordering  the  carriage  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  was  ill  and  must  go  home  at  once,  and  that  he 
was  sorry  for  me." 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  hesitated.  It  was  clear  that  Greif 
had  not  been  so  ill  as  she  had  at  first  supposed,  or  he  could  not 
have  walked  out  alone,  ordered  the  carriage  and  gone  on  with 
out  support.  Karl  interrupted  her  meditations. 

"Merciful  ladyships  forgive  me,"  he  obsei'ved,  "but  if  he 
walks  farther  he  will  be  more  ill."  He  gathered  the  reins  and 
prepared  to  move  on. 

"  Go,  Karl,"  said  the  baroness,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  gone. 

"Mother  —  you  ought  to  have  gone,  too  —  "  Hilda  began, 
looking  into  her  face  with  an  expression  of  mingled  anxiety 
and  disappointment. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  I  could,  my  child,"  answered  the  baroness. 
"  If  Greif  was  strong  enough  to  go  it  was  best  that  he  should 
do  so.  It  would  be  hard  for  us  to  take  care  of  him.  He  has 
his  cousin  at  Greifenstein,  and  they  can  send  for  me  if  he  is 
worse.  Besides  —  "  She  hesitated  and  stopped. 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Hilda  anxiously. 

"  He  showed  good  sense,  since  he  was  able  to  go.  It  is  not 
the  custom  in  the  world  for  young  men  to  make  long  visits  in 
such  cases." 

"  The  world,  the  world !  "  exclaimed  Hilda  wearily.  "  I  have 
heard  so  much  of  the  world  this  morning.  Mother —  He 
will  not  send  for  you.  We  shall  not  know  how  he  is  —  " 

"  I  will  take  care  that  we  may  know,"  answered  the  baroness 
quietly.  "  He  is  young  and  very  strong.  Perhaps  it  is  only 
fatigue  after  all,  and  we  shall  hear  that  he  is  well  to-morrow." 

Hilda's  instinct  told  her  to  slip  from  her  mother's  side,  to 
pass  the  gate  and  run  down  by  the  short  and  steep  descent  to 
the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  road  made  a  wide  sweep  before  pass 
ing  this  point  and  she  would  have  been  certain  to  reach  it  long 
before  the  carriage.  But  she  knew  that  such  wildness  could 
produce  no  good  result.  She  would  stand  there  waiting  for  the 
carriage,  it  would  come,  Greif  would  tell  Karl  to  stop,  and  then 
—  what  could  happen?  There  would  be  a  sort  of  momentary 
renewal  of  the  scene  which  had  ended  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago, 
with  the  unpleasant  addition  of  the  driver  as  a  witness.  She 
could  not  get  in  and  drive  with  him,  and  so  the  situation  would 


244  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

have  to  end  abruptly,  perhaps  in  another  attack  of  that  pain 
which  had  so  suddenly  prostrated  Greif.  It  was  very  hard  that 
he  should  have  escaped  in  this  way,  and  nothing  but  his  suffer 
ing  could  excuse  his  conduct;  but  to  have  him  return  now 
would  be  almost  worse.  After  all,  Hilda  was  woman  enough 
to  know  that  she  had  got  the  best  of  the  argument  at  the  last, 
and  that  Greif 's  abrupt  departure  looked  very  much  like  a  pre 
cipitate  flight.  She  knew  also  that  he  loved  her,  and  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  him  to  leave  the  country  without  seeing 
her  again.  No  woman  would  believe  the  man  she  loves  capable 
of  that.  It  was  therefore  madness  to  think  of  intercepting  him 
upon  the  road,  in  order  to  exchange  another  word.  With  hands 
loosely  joined  together  and  hanging  down,  Hilda  stood  gazing 
at  the  vacant  gateway.  The  happiness  she  had  anticipated  an 
hour  earlier,  when  she  had  descried  the  distant  carriage  that 
brought  Greif  to  her,  had  been  strangely  interrupted,  and  yet 
she  was  not  altogether  unhappy  now,  though  she  was  very  sad 
and  silent.  For  all  the  world  she  would  not  have  unlived  that 
hour,  nor  unsaid  the  words  that  had  passed  her  lips.  The  time 
had  been  very  short,  and  yet  it  had  sufficed  to  show  her  what 
Greif 's  love  for  her  really  was,  and  what  he  was  willing  to  suffer 
for  her  sake.  She  had,  too,  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  this 
suffering  had  not  been  brought  upon  by  herself,  and  that  she 
had  used  all  her  strength  to  relieve  him  of  it.  He  had  indeed 
refused  to  give  up  the  burden  to  the  very  end,  but  Hilda  did 
not  believe  that  he  would  bear  it  many  days  longer  after  what 
she  had  said.  Her  youth  and  strength  refused  to  accept  such 
an  evil  destiny,  and  her  keen  feminine  perception  told  her  that 
more  than  half  of  his  obstinacy  had  been  morbid  and  unnatural, 
and  would  disappear  with  the  change  wrought  in  him  by  rest 
and  quiet.  Her  anxiety  now  was  for  him,  and  did  not  concern 
herself  any  longer.  She  knew  nothing  of  illness  save  as  a  sort  of 
vague  misfortune,  a  state  of  undefined  pain  during  which  people 
stayed  in  bed  and  were  visited  by  physicians.  Never  during 
her  lifetime  had  any  one  of  the  three  women  who  composed  the 
little  household  been  ailing  even  for  a  day,  and  though  Hilda 
had  sometimes  been  told,  when  she  was  visiting  at  Greifenstein, 
that  Clara  was  not  well  enough  to  appeal',  she  had  only  fancied 
how  the  poor  lady  would  look  when  she  was  not  painted  and  her 
hair  was  all  out  of  curl.  That  did  not  help  her  to  realise 
what  an  illness  meant.  She  could  only  recall  the  look  on  Greif 's 


GREIFENSTEIN.  245 

face  when  he  had  reeled  to  the  chair  and  then  thrown  his  head 
back,  while  his  closed  lids  turned  purple.  For  a  long  time  that 
was  the  only  picture  evoked  in  her  mind  when  sickness  was 
spoken  of. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  looked  at  her  daughter,  without 
understanding  her  thoughts.  She  guessed  what  the  nature  of 
the  interview  had  probably  been,  but  she  had  no  means  of 
knowing  how  it  had  ended.  Nevertheless  she  was  willing  to 
wait  until  Hilda  chose  to  speak,  and  she  knew  that  she  would 
not  wait  long.  Presently  she  passed  her  arm  through  her 
daughter's  and  led  her  gently  back  towards  the  house.  The 
latter  made  no  resistance,  but  walked  quietly  beside  her  across 
the  sunny  court.  When  they  reached  the  door  of  the  hall  Hilda 
turned  and  looked  again  towards  the  gate. 

"I  wonder  how  it  will  be  when  he  comes  in  by  that  way 
again !  "  she  said. 

Then  she  went  in  with  her  mother  and  entered  the  sitting- 
room,  and  sat  down  in  her  old  place,  in  the  chair  into  which 
Greif  had  fallen.  She  was  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  while 
Frau  von  Sigmundskron  went  to  tell  Berbel  that  Greif  was 
gone  after  all,  and  that  there  was  no  need  to  upset  all  the 
household  arrangements. 

The  fire  was  still  burning  brightly,  though  one  of  the  logs 
had  fallen  into  two  pieces,  making  a  great  cave  of  coals  and 
flames  in  the  midst.  The  slow  sun  had  not  crept  as  far  as  the 
next  threadbare  seam  upon  the  faded  carpet.  The  room  was 
the  same  as  it  had  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier.  Hilda 
thought  of  all  that  had  happened  while  that  log  was  being 
burned  through,  and  while  the  bright  sunlight  had  moved 
across  that  narrow  space.  She  spread  her  white  hands  to  the 
blaze,  and  looked  at  the  red  glare  between  her  fingers. 

She  was  not  altogether  as  calm  as  she  looked,  but  she  was 
certainly  far  less  moved  than  might  have  been  expected.  There 
was  a  solidity  about  her  nerves  that  would  have  driven  to  de 
spair  the  morbid  worshippers  of  the  decadent  school  of  romance, 
a  natural  force  which  made  it  very  hard  to  understand  her. 
Womanly  she  undoubtedly  was,  but  of  that  type  in  woman 
which  is  rarely  seen  in  cities  and  not  often  in  the  country. 
There  is  a  hopefulness  inherent  in  perfect  physical  organisa 
tions  that  have  never  been  strained  by  unnatural  means,  which 
makes  them  seem  hard  and  unfeeling  to  weaker  natures.  They 


246  GREIFENSTEIN. 

have  a  way  of  sitting  still  without  betraying  their  thoughts, 
when  they  are  not  called  upon  to  act,  which  produces  the 
impression  that  they  feel  nothing,  and  care  for  nothing  but 
themselves.  It  is  only  in  great  moments  that  they  are  seen  at 
their  best,  and  that  their  overpowering  strength  in  action 
excites  wonder.  They  show  none  of  those  constant  changes 
that  belong  to  very  nervous  people,  and  make  them  interesting 
as  studies  of  sensibility.  Their  faces  do  not  reflect  the  light 
and  shade  of  every  passing  circumstance,  their  voices  are  not 
full  of  quickly  contrasted  intonations  which  tell  more  than 
words  themselves,  they  do  not  blush  and  turn  pale  at  every 
suggestion  of  happiness  or  unhappiness  to  themselves,  every-day 
speeches  do  not  raise  in  their  minds  quick  trains  of  association, 
linked  and  running  on  like  an  ascending  scale  in  music,  to  cul 
minate  in  a  little  moment  of  emotion,  in  a  little  flutter  of  the 
heart,  half  pleasant,  half  painful.  Their  strong  pulses  beat 
quietly,  in  an  unvarying  rhythm,  the  full  and  even  flow  of 
blood  maintains  a  soft  colour  in  their  fresh  faces ;  when  they 
are  tired  they  sleep,  when  they  are  awake  they  are  rarely  tired ; 
what  they  could  do  yesterday,  they  can  do  as  well  to-day,  and 
they  feel  that  they  will  be  able  to  do  the  same  to-morrow. 
They  never  feel  those  sharp  thrusts  close  to  the  heart  that  tell 
us  how  quickly  one  thrust  a  little  sharper  than  the  others  would 
end  all.  They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  houi's  of  the  night  count 
ing  the  blows  of  the  cruel  little  hammer  that  beats  its  prison  to 
pieces  at  last  and  is  broken  in  the  ruin  of  the  breast  that  con 
fined  it.  And  the  world  counts  it  all  to  them  for  dulness  and 
lack  of  delicate  feeling,  with  little  discernment  and  less  justice, 
until  the  day  when  it  sees  them  roused  by  such  passions  as 
alone  can  rouse  them,  or  suffering  such  deadly  pain  as  only  the 
strongest  can  live  to  suffer. 

The  baroness  came  back  in  a  few  minutes  and  stood  beside 
Hilda,  laying  her  hand  upon  her  daughter's  forehead,  and  bend 
ing  down. 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you,  child  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  said  that  he  would  not  marry  me  because  it  would  be  a 
shame  that  I  should  be  called  Greifenstein  after  what  has  hap 
pened." 

"  That  was  what  he  told  me,"  replied  her  mother,  leaving  her 
and  taking  up  a  piece  of  needlework  that  lay  on  the  table. 
She  could  not  be  idle.  "  That  was  what  he  told  me,"  she 


GREIFEN  STEIN.  247 

repeated  thoughtfully.  "And  I  answered  that  he  was  mis 
taken." 

"  He  said  you  had  done  your  best  to  persuade  him,"  said 
Hilda,  and  then  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  did  ?  "  she  asked  presently. 

"  I  suppose  you  told  him  that  you  did  not  care  for  such  things 
as  names." 

"  Yes  —  I  said  that.  But  I  took  his  hands,  and  I  told  him 
that  I  would  not  let  him  go.  I  think  I  was  very  angry  at 
something,  but  not  at  him." 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  laid  her  work  upon  her  knees  and 
looked  at  the  young  girl  attentively  for  some  seconds. 

"  Was  I  wrong  ?  "  Hilda  asked,  turning  round  as  she  felt  her 
mother's  gaze  upon  her. 

"  No.  I  do  not  see  that  it  was  wrong,  but  I  think  I  should 
have  acted  differently.  I  think  I  would  have  tried  to  make 
him  see  —  well,  I  never  was  like  you." 

"  I  am  sorry  —  I  would  do  anything  to  be  like  you,  mother 
dear." 

.  "You  need  not  be  sorry,  child.  You  are  like  some  one  I 
loved  better  than  myself  —  you  remind  me  of  your  father.  And 
what  did  Greif  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  He  refused  to  the  very  last  —  then  he  had  that  pain  in  his 
head  and  I  thought  he  was  going  to  die.  You  know  the  rest. 
O  mother,  what  will  become  of  him,  and  when  shall  we  see  him 
again  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  when  we  shall  see  him,  dear,  but  I  do  not 
think  he  will  be  very  ill.  When  a  man  has  the  strength  to  do 
what  he  has  just  done,  and  go  away  on  foot,  as  he  went,  he  is 
not  in  a  dangerous  state." 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  resumed  her  needlework  and  did 
not  speak  again  for  a  long  time.  She  had  found  time  to  think, 
and  Greif's  conduct  was  strange  in  her  eyes. 


248  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

KARL  overtook  Greif  before  the  latter  had  walked  half  a  mile. 
The  rapid  decision,  the  brisk  walk  and  the  biting  air  had  con 
tributed  to  alleviate  the  intolerable  pain  to  which  he  had 
momentarily  succumbed,  and  as  he  lay  back  among  the  furs 
he  began  to  fancy  that  he  should  not  be  ill  after  all,  and  to 
regret  the  scarcely  decent  haste  he  had  employed  in  making  his 
escape.  But  when  he  tried  to  think  over  what  had  happened 
he  found  that  his  brain  was  confused  and  his  memories  indis 
tinct.  Of  one  thing  only  he  was  quite  sure,  that  he  had  accom 
plished  his  intention  and  had  renounced  Hilda  for  ever.  With 
the  emotion  caused  by  the  thought  the  pain  seized  him  again 
and  he  lay  almost  unconscious  in  his  seat  while  Karl  guided  the- 
horses  carefully  along  the  steep  road.  Before  many  miles  were 
passed,  Greif  was  aware  of  nothing  but  the  indistinct  shapes 
of  trees  and  rocks  that  slipped  in  and  out  through  the  field  of 
his  aching  vision.  Everything  else  was  a  blank,  and  the 
least  attempt  at  thought  became  agonising.  At  one  time  he 
could  not  remember  whether  he  was  going  towards  his  home 
or  away  from  it ;  at  another,  he  was  convinced  that  some  one 
was  in  the  carriage  with  him,  either  his  father  or  Frau  von 
Sigmundskron,  and  he  tried  vaguely  to  reconcile  the  fact  of 
their  presence  with  his  inability  to  see  their  shapes. 

At  last  he  knew  that  he  was  being  lifted  from  the  carriage, 
and  he  made  an  effort  to  straighten  himself  and  to  walk  upright. 
But  strong  arms  were  round  him  and  bore  him  through  bright 
halls  where  the  low  sun  shot  in  level  rays  through  stained 
windows,  and  along  broad  dim  corridors  that  seemed  as  though 
they  would  never  end,  until  at  last  he  was  laid  upon  a  bed  in 
a  warm  room.  There,  all  at  once,  as  in  a  dream,  he  recognised 
Rex,  who  was  standing  beside  him  and  holding  his  hand. 

"  I  must  be  ill,  after  all,"  he  said  faintly. 

"  Very,"  answered  Rex.  "  Do  you  know  me  ?  Can  you  tell 
me  what  has  happened  to  you  ?  " 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  249 

Greif  stared  at  him  for  a  few  seconds  and  then  answered  with 
an  effort. 

"  I  have  done  it,"  he  said,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

After  that,  he  was  conscious  of  nothing  more,  neither  of  day 
light  nor  of  darkness,  neither  of  solitude  nor  of  the  presence  of 
Rex  and  of  those  who  helped  him  in  his  incessant  care.  A  day 
passed,  and  another,  one  physician  came,  then  two,  and  then  a 
great  authority  was  summoned  and  installed  himself  in  the 
castle,  and  visited  the  sick  man  six  times  during  the  day,  and 
feasted  royally  in  the  meanwhile,  after  the  manner  of  great 
authorities,  who  have  an  amazing  discernment  in  regard  to  the 
good  things  of  this  life,  as  well  as  an  astonishing  capacity  for 
enjoying  them. 

All  manner  of  things  were  done  to  Greif  of  which  he  never 
knew  anything.  He  had  ice  upon  his  head  and  burning  leaves 
of  mustard  on  his  feet,  he  was  fed  with  strange  mixtures  of  wine 
and  soup,  of  raw  meat  and  preserves,  all  of  which  he  swallowed 
unconsciously  without  getting  any  better.  Still  he  tossed  and 
raved,  and  moaned  and  laughed,  and  cried  like  a  child  and 
howled  like  a  madman. 

The  great  authority  shook  his  head  and  pensively  drank  the 
old  burgundy  that  was  set  before  him,  partaking  of  a  delicate 
slice  of  game  between  one  sip  and  another,  and  thoughtfully 
cropping  the  heads  of  the  forced  asparagus  when  he  was  tired  of 
the  venison.  For  a  long  time  he  and  Rex  said  little  to  each  other 
at  their  meals,  and  the  physician  was  inclined  to  suppose  that  his 
companion  was  a  man  of  merely  ordinary  intelligence.  One  day, 
however,  as  Greif  grew  no  better,  Rex  determined  to  startle  the 
good  man,  by  ascertaining  what  he  knew.  In  order  to  lead  the 
conversation  he  threw  out  a  careless  remark  about  an  unsettled 
question  which  he  knew  to  be  agitating  the  scientific  world,  and 
concerning  which  it  was  certain  that  the  great  doctor  would  have 
a  firm  opinion  of  his  own.  To  the  astonishment  of  the  latter,  Rex 
disputed  the  point,  at  first  as  though  he  cared  little,  but  gradually 
and  with  matchless  skill  disclosing  to  his  adversaiy  a  complete 
ness  of  information  and  a  keenness  of  judgment  which  fairly 
took  away  his  breath. 

"  You  almost  convince  me,"  said  the  physician,  who  had  quite 
forgotten  to  help  himself  a  second  time  to  green  peas,  though 
they  were  the  first  he  had  seen  that  year.  "  Upon  my  word, 
Herr  Rex,  you  almost  convince  me.  And  yet  you  are  a  very 
young  man." 


250  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

"  How  old  do  you  think  I  am  ?  "  inquired  Rex  with  a  faint 
smile. 

The  doctor  examined  his  face  attentively  and  then  looked  long 
at  his  hands.  He  became  so  much  interested  that  he  rose  from 
his  seat  and  came  and  scrutinised  Rex's  features  as  though  he 
were  studying  the  points  of  an  animal. 

"  I  am  amazed,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  down  again  and  adjusted  his 
napkin  upon  his  knees.  "  I  do  not  see  anything  to  prove  that 
you  are  more  than  two  or  three  and  thirty." 

"  I  was  forty  years  old  on  my  last  birthday  —  and  I  was  still  a 
student  at  Schwarzburg,"  replied  Rex  quietly. 

"You  have  a  very  fine  action  of  the  heart,"  observed  the 
doctor,  "  I  would  not  have  thought  it,  but  your  age  heals  the 
wound  in  my  vanity." 

Now  it  is  a  very  singular  fact  that  from  that  hour  the  great 
physician  should  have  paid  more  attention  to  Greif  and  less  to  the 
venison  and  asparagus,  but  it  is  certainly  true  that  his  manner 
changed,  as  well  as  his  conversation,  and  that  he  bestowed  more 
care  upon  his  patient  than  he  had  ever  given  to  any  sick  man  since 
he  had  become  celebrated.  Ever  afterwards,  he  told  his  learned 
acquaintances  that  the  only  man  he  had  ever  met  who  gave 
promise  of  greatness  was  a  quiet  person  who  lived  in  the  Black 
Forest. 

Rex  had  satisfied  himself,  however,  that  the  doctor  knew  a 
great  deal,  though  he  had  not  a  high  opinion  of  medical  science 
in  general,  and  almost  said  so.  Greif,  nevei'theless,  continued 
to  be  very  ill  indeed,  and  his  state  seemed  to  go  from  bad  to 
worse.  Rex  was  anxious,  and  watched  him  and  nursed  him  with 
unfailing  care.  He  knew  well  enough  what  Greif  had  meant  by 
the  few  words  he  had  spoken  after  he  was  brought  home,  and 
he  knew  all  that  his  cousin's  action  involved.  His  reflexions 
were  not  pleasant. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  though  fate  were  about  to  solve  the  diffi 
culty  by  cutting  all  the  knots  at  once.  If  this  terrible  fever 
made  an  end  of  Greif,  there  would  be  an  end  also  of  the  house 
of  Greifenstein  by  the  extinction  of  the  last  male  descendant. 
Greif,  the  penniless  and  nameless  orphan,  would  lie  beside  his 
father  as  Greif  von  Greifenstein,  and  the  fortune  would  go  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  the  law  to  the  Sigmundskrons,  to  whom 
it  really  belonged.  But  if  Greif  recovered  and  persisted  in 
refusing  to  marry  Hilda,  the  greatest  injustice  would  be  done 


GREIFENSTEIN.  251 

to  the  widow  and  her  daughter.  Hex's  views  of  right  would 
not  be  satisfied  if  the  Sigmundskrons  received  only  a  part  of 
the  fortune  which  was  legitimately  theirs,  and  Rex  thought 
with  horror  of  the  moment  when  he  might  be  obliged  to  go  to 
Greif  and  disclose  the  truth.  He  was  a  man  of  very  strong 
principles,  which  were  detached  from  any  sort  of  moral  belief, 
but  it  seemed  as  though  his  intelligence  were  conscious  of  its 
failing,  in  spite  of  all  his  reasoning,  and  were  always  trying  to 
supply  the  lacuna  by  binding  itself  to  its  own  rules,  to  which 
its  faith  had  been  transferred.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  if 
Greif  could  not  be  persuaded  that  he  was  acting  foolishly  it 
would  be  necessary  to  reveal  the  secret.  Rather  than  that  Greif 
himself  should  be  made  to  suffer  what  such  a  revelation  implied, 
it  would  be  almost  better  that  he  should  die  in  his  unconscious 
delirium.  Human  life,  in  Rex's  opinion,  was  not  worth  much, 
unless  it  afforded  a  fair  share  of  happiness,  and  he  knew  well 
enough  that  Greif  could  never  recover  from  such  a  blow.  The 
loss  of  fortune  would  be  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  loss  of 
name,  and  with  the  dishonour  to  his  dead  mother's  memory. 
Rex  knew  what  that  meant,  thoiigh  even  he  had  not  been  made 
to  bear  all  that  was  in  store  for  Greif  in  such  a  case. 

In  the  dim  room  he  looked  at  his  brother's  face.  He  had 
grown  so  much  accustomed  to  the  droning  sound  of  his  cease 
less  ravings,  as  hardly  to  notice  it  when  he  was  in  the  room, 
though  it  pursued  him  whenever  he  was  alone.  He  watched 
Greif's  pale  features,  and  wondered  what  the  result  would  be. 
If  Greif  died,  the  lonely  man  had  nothing  left  to  live  for., 
Greif  had  come  into  his  life,  just  when  he  was  beginning  to 
feel  with  advancing  years  that  neither  fortune  nor  science  can 
fill  the  place  of  the  human  affections.  As  for  the  love  of 
woman,  Rex  had  never  understood  what  it  meant.  He  had 
entangled  himself  in  more  than  one  affair  of  little  importance, 
partly  from  curiosity,  partly  out  of  vanity,  but  in  his  experi 
ence  he  had  never  found  a  companion  in  any  woman,  nor  had 
he  ever  known  one  whom  he  would  not  have  left  at  a  moment's 
notice  for  the  sake  of  any  one  out  of  half  a  dozen  occupations 
and  amusements  which  pleased  him  better  than  lovemaking. 
To  this  singular  absence  of  emotions  he  perhaps  owed  his 
youthful  looks,  at  an  age  when  many  men  are  growing  grey 
and  most  show  signs  of  stress  of  weather.  He  had  never  cared 
for  his  father's  society,  first,  because  he  had  lacked  all  the  early 


252  GREIFENSTEIN. 

associations  of  childhood  on  which  alone  such  affection  is 
often  based,  and,  secondly,  because  he  had  differed  from  him 
in  all  his  ideas  and  tastes  as  soon  as  he  had  been  able  to  think 
for  himself.  Their  relations  had  always  been  amicable,  for  Rex 
was  not  a  man,  even  when  young,  to  quarrel  easily  over  small 
matters,  and  old  Rieseneck  had  sent  him  at  an  early  age  to 
Germany,  supplying  him  very  bountifully  with  money,  in  the 
belief  that  he  ought  to  atone  in  every  way  for  the  injury  done 
to  his  son  by  his  own  disgrace.  Beyond  a  regular  correspond 
ence,  which  had  never  savoured  much  of  ardent  affection,  there 
had  been  nothing  to  unite  the  two  during  many  years  past. 
Then  Rex  had  taken  the  trouble  to  find  out  his  cousin,  had 
liked  him  more  and  more,  and  had  at  last  learned  that  he  was 
not  his  cousin  but  his  brother.  Now,  as  he  saw  him  lying  there 
between  life  and  death,  he  admitted  to  himself  that  he  loved 
him,  and  that  he  took  the  trouble  to  remain  alive  merely  for 
his  sake.  But  for  Greif,  that  fatal  letter  would  have  been 
enough  to  make  him  give  it  up. 

In  truth,  the  life  which  Rex  had  condescended  to  leave  in 
himself  did  not  promise  well.  The  physician  did  his  best, 
which  was  as  good  as  any  man's  when  he  chose  that  it  should 
be,  but  Greif  was  daily  losing  strength,  and  the  inflammation 
of  the  brain  showed  no  signs  of  disappearing.  It  is  probable 
that  if  he  had  been  thrown  with  any  other  companion  than  Rex, 
the  great  doctor  would  have  shaken  his  head  and  would  have 
announced  that  there  was  very  little  hope.  But  Rex  acted  upon 
him  as  a  stimulant,  and  his  impenetrable,  stony  eyes  made  the 
physician  feel  as  though  his  whole  reputation  were  at  stake. 
The  latter  even  went  to  the  length  of  sitting  up  all  night  when 
the  patient  was  at  his  worst,  a  thing  he  had  not  done  for  many 
a  long  year,  and  probably  never  did  again  during  his  comfort 
able  existence. 

Greif  was  going  to  die.  The  doctor  had  very  little  doubt  of 
it.  In  all  his  experience  he  had  never  known  such  an  obstinate 
case  of  meningitis  in  a  man  so  young  and  so  strong.  The  grey 
morning  dawned  and  found  him  and  Rex  standing  upon  each 
side  of  the  bed  that  looked  unnaturally  white  in  the  gloom. 
Still,  Greif  was  alive,  though  his  moaning  had  grown  very 
faint,  and  his  strength  was  almost  gone.  Rex  held  his  breath 
every  now  and  then,  as  the  sound  ceased,  fearing  lest  every 
moment  should  be  the  last.  The  doctor  tried  to  make  out  the 


GREIFENSTEIN.  253 

time  without  carrying  his  watch  to  the  night-light,  failed  and 
returned  it  to  his  pocket  with  a  half -suppressed  sigh.  He  had 
done  all  that  he  could,  and  yet  Rex's  stony  eyes  were  fixed  on 
him  in  the  early  twilight,  and  his  reputation  was  at  stake.  He 
knew  that  the  thread  might  break  at  any  moment,  but  he  be 
lieved  that  if  Greif  lived  until  sunrise  he  would  live  until  noon, 
and  die  about  three  o'clock  in  the  day. 

"Herr  Rex,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  think  you  had  better  send 
for  Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  if  she  would  wish  to  see  him. 
You  told  me  he  had  no  other  relation  near." 

Rex's  head  fell  forward  upon  his  breast  as  though  he  had 
received  a  blow,  though  he  had  known  all  through  the  night 
that  this  morning  might  be  the  last,  and  the  doctor  had  told 
him  nothing  unexpected.  A  moment  later  he  left  the  room 
quietly.  He  was  met  by  a  servant  before  he  had  gone  far. 

"Tell  Karl  to  put  in  the  Trachener  stallions  and  drive  to 
Sigmundskron  as  fast  as  they  can  go.  He  must  bring  back  the 
baroness  before  noon.  Your  master  is  dying." 

He  would  have  turned  away,  but  the  man  detained  him  with 
a  question  he  did  not  hear  at  first. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  messenger  has  just  come  from  Sigmundskron  to  inquire," 
the  servant  said. 

"  I  will  see  him.     Give  the  order  to  Karl  quickly,"  said  Rex. 

In  the  hall  a  queer-looking  man  was  brought  to  him.  He  was 
one  of  those  thin,  wiry,  dark  and  straight-haired  men  of  the 
Forest  who  seem  to  belong  to  a  race  not  German,  whatever  it 
may  be.  He  wore  patched  leather  breeches,  from  the  side  pocket 
of  which  protruded  the  horn  handle  of  his  long  knife.  His  legs 
were  bare,  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck,  his  waistcoat  with  silver 
buttons  was  flung  carelessly  over  one  shoulder,  and  a  small  fur 
cap  was  thrust  back  from  his  forehead,  upon  which  a  few  drops 
of  perspiration  were  visible.  His  small  and  piercing  eyes  met 
Rex's  boldly. 

"  The  baroness  sent  me  to  know  how  the  young  gentleman 
was,"  he  said,  speaking  in  the  Swabian  dialect. 

"  Herr  von  Greifenstein  is  dying,"  answered  Rex  gravely. 

"  Then  I  had  better  go  and  tell  her  so,"  said  the  man,  calmly, 
though  his  face  fell  at  the  bad  news.  He  was  already  turning 
away  when  Rex  stopped  him. 

"  Have  you  come  on  foot  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  curiously  at  a 


254  GRE1FENSTEIN. 

fellow  who  could  run  over  from  Sigmundskron  and  go  back 
almost  without  taking  breath. 

"  Of  course,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Then  you  can  go  home  in  the  carriage.  I  have  just  ordered 
it.  Give  him  something  to  eat  quickly,"  he  added,  turning  to 
the  servant,  '-  before  Karl  is  ready." 

"I  shall  be  there  before  your  carriage,"  observed  the  man 
carelessly.  "  Especially  if  you  will  give  me  a  drink  of  cherry 
spirits." 

"  Before  the  carriage  ?  " 

"  Not  if  I  stay  here,"  said  the  other.  "But  I  can  beat  your 
horses  by  half  an  hour  at  least." 

"  What  is  your  name  ? "  asked  Rex  while  the  servant  was 
gone  for  the  drink. 

"  Wastei." 

"  Sebastian,  I  suppose?" 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  though  to  say  that  he 
did  not  care  for  such  a  civilised  appellation.  Rex  took  out  his 
purse  and  gave  him  a  gold  piece,  a  generosity  elicited  by  his 
admiration  for  the  fellow's  powers. 

"  Take  that,  Wastei,  and  here  is  your  liquor." 

Wastei  nodded  carelessly,  slipped  the  money  into  his  waist 
coat  pocket,  drank  a  quarter  of  the  bottle  of  cherry  spirits  at  a 
draught,  and  touching  his  cap  was  out  of  the  door  before  Rex 
could  speak  again. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  that  fellow  before  ?  "  Rex  asked  of  the 
servant. 

"  No,  sir,"  the  man  answered  rather  stiffly.  "  I  am  not  from 
these  parts." 

Rex  returned  to  Greif's  room  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  found 
the  physician  standing  where  he  had  left  him,  waiting  for  the 
sunrise.  They  both  sat  down  in  silence,  watching  the  face  of 
the  dying  man,  and  listening  to  his  breathing.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done,  save  to  try  and  make  him  swallow  some 
nourishment  once  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

The  dawn  brightened  slowly,  until  a  soft  pink  light  was  re 
flected  from  the  snow  outside  upon  the  ceiling  of  the  room.  It 
was  mid-winter  still  and  the  nights  were  long  and  the  days 
short,  the  sun  rising  almost  as  late  as  possible  and  setting  sud 
denly  again  when  the  day  seemed  only  half  over.  When  at  last 
the  level  eastern  rays  shot  into  the  chamber,  Rex  and  the  doctor 


GREIFENSTEIN.  255 

rose  and  looked  at  their  patient.  He  was  breathing  still,  very 
faintly,  and  apparently  without  pain. 

"  There  is  a  possibility  still,"  said  Rex  in  a  low  voice. 

The  physician  glanced  at  him,  and  suppressed  a  professional 
shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  We  shall  see  what  happens  at  noon,"  he  answered,  but  the 
tone  of  his  voice  was  sceptical. 

To  tell  the  truth  he  believed  that  there  was  no  longer  any 
hope  whatever,  and  so  far  as  any  such  chance  was  concerned  he 
would  almost  have  risked  going  home  at  once.  Nevertheless  he 
determined  to  stay  to  the  very  last,  partly  because  his  reputa 
tion  was  at  stake,  partly  out  of  curiosity  to  watch  Rex  at  the 
supreme  moment.  He  suspected  that  the  latter  was  in  some 
way  profoundly  interested  in  the  question  of  Greif 's  life,  though 
he  found  it  quite  impossible  to  make  sure  whether  his  anxiety 
proceeded  from  affection  or  from  some  more  selfish  motive.  For 
the  present,  however,  he  left  Rex  to  himself  and  went  to  his 
own  room  to  rest  an  hour  or  two. 

The  time  passed  very  slowly.  Rex's  nerves  were  as  firm  as 
the  rest  of  his  singularly  well-knit  constitution,  and  he  was 
never  weary  of  fulfilling  the  mechanical  duties  of  a  nurse,  which 
he  had  refused  to  relinquish,  during  twelve  hours  at  least  of  each 
day,  though  he  was  obliged  to  give  his  place  to  an  assistant 
during  the  remainder  of  the  time. 

In  order  not  to  be  idle  as  he  sat  beside  the  bed,  Rex  drew  fig 
ures  and  made  calculations  in  his  pocket-book.  He  seemed  to 
derive  considerable  satisfaction  from  his  occupation,  for  he 
looked  more  hopefully  at  Greif  each  time  he  raised  his  head, 
though  the  latter's  condition  showed  no  apparent  change.  His 
consolation  was  in  reality  only  transitory,  for  when  the  clock  at 
last  struck  twelve  and  he  laid  his  work  definitely  aside,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  been  dreaming  and  that  the  case  was  more 
desperate  than  ever.  The  physician  returned  and  stood  beside 
him,  but  he  looked  at  Rex  more  often  than  at  Greif.  At  last 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  younger  man's  arm  and  led  him  away 
from  the  bedside,  towards  the  open  window. 

"  Herr  Rex,  I  would  say  a  word  to  you.  I  firmly  believe  that 
your  cousin  will  die  in  a  few  minutes."  He  spoke  in  a  whisper, 
and  Rex  bent  his  head,  for  he  thought  his  companion  was  right. 

"  I  have  a  theory,"  continued  the  doctor,  "  that  people  who 
are  dying  are  far  more  conscious  of  what  passes  around  them 


256  GREIFENSTEIN. 

than  is  commonly  supposed.  It  may  be  true  or  it  may  not. 
Let  us  at  all  events  be  careful  of  what  we  say  to  each  other." 

Rex  nodded  gravely,  and  they  returned  to  the  side  of  the 
dying  man.  It  was  just  mid-day,  and  Greif  was  lying  on  his 
back,  with  his  eyes  open.  The  physician  bent  down  and  laid 
his  ear  to  the  heart.  When  he  raised  his  head  again,  he  looked 
about  the  room,  somewhat  nervously  avoiding  Rex's  eyes.  All 
at  once  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  running  feet 
outside,  and  he  glanced  quickly  at  his  companion,  who  had  also 
heard  the  noise. 

It  was  the  supreme  moment,  for  Greif's  consciousness  had 
returned.  As  often  happens  at  the  moment  of  death  a  violent 
physical  struggle  began.  The  light  returned  to  his  eyes,  and 
the  strength  to  his  limbs.  He  raised  himself  upon  his  hands, 
and  sat  up,  while  the  doctor  supported  him  with  one  arm,  and 
with  a  quick  movement  put  brandy  to  his  lips.  It  was  the  work 
of  an  instant,  and  it  all  happened  while  Rex  was  crossing  the 
room.  Suddenly,  as  the  doctor  watched  him,  his  eyes  fixed 
themselves.  In  the  next  instant,  he  thought,  their  light  would 
break ;  and  the  body  he  supported  would  collapse  and  fall  back 
for  ever.  It  was  the  last  gasp.  Then  a  ringing  voice  broke 
the  silence,  just  as  Rex  had  his  hand  upon  the  latch. 

"  I  will,  I  tell  you  —  he  is  mine !  " 

The  door  was  flung  wide  open,  and  a  woman  entered  the  room. 
Rex  had  a  strange  impression  of  golden  hair  and  gleaming  eyes 
passing  him  like  a  flash,  like  the  leap  of  a  lioness  springing  to 
defend  her  young. 

The  doctor  looked  up  in  astonishment.  Before  he  could  help 
himself  he  was  thrust  ruthlessly  aside,  and  Greif  was  in  other 
arms  than  his.  Hilda  bent  down  as  she  held  him.  The  fixed 
stare  changed,  while  the  doctor  was  craning  his  neck  to  see 
what  would  happen,  but  the  light  did  not  go  out,  nor  did  the 
pupils  turn  white  and  dead. 

"  Hilda !  Hilda !  Hilda  !  "  His  voice  was  faint  but  clear.  One 
moment  longer  he  gazed  into  her  face  and  then  sank  quietly 
back  upon  her  arm,  with  a  smile  upon  his  parted  lips,  his  fingers 
seeking  her  hand  until  they  lay  quite  still  in  hers.  He  was  so 
quiet  that  Hilda  was  terrified.  With  a  low  and  piteous  moan 
she  sank  upon  her  knees  beside  the  bed.  It  was  a  cry  like  noth 
ing  those  present  had  ever  heard.  The  physician  understood, 
and  bent  down  to  her. 


GREIFEN  STEIN.  257 

"I  think  we  had  better  be  very  quiet,"  he  said.  "You  will 
frighten  him." 

Hilda  stared  wildly  into  his  face,  and  saw  there  an  expression 
that  transfixed  her  with  astonishment.  Slowly,  as  though  not 
daring  to  face  the  sight,  she  turned  her  eyes  towards  Greif. 
There  was  a  faint  colour  in  his  sunken  cheeks,  and  he  was 
breathing  regularly.  Hilda  pressed  her  hands  to  her  breast 
with  all  her  might  to  smother  the  cry  of  joy  that  almost  broke 
her  heart. 

The  baroness  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  with  Rex, 
unconscious  of  the  tears  that  streamed  from  her  eyes,  her  hands 
clasped  before  her  as  though  in  prayer.  She  looked  like  the 
figure  of  a  sainted  woman  of  old.  As  for  Rex  himself,  he  was 
trembling  a  little  and  was  conscious  that  if  he  had  attempted  to 
speak  he  would  not  have  heard  his  own  voice.  But  otherwise 
his  outward  demeanour  betrayed  nothing  of  what  was  passing 
within  him.  He  knew  as  well  as  the  physician  that  Greif  had 
survived  the  most  dangerous  moment  and  that  he  would  in  all 
probability  recover,  and  he  knew  that  if  Hilda's  sudden  entrance 
had  not  given  a  new  impulse  to  the  ebbing  life,  all  would  have 
been  over  by  that  time.  For  a  few  seconds  he  was  scarcely 
conscious,  though  he  looked  calmer  and  colder  than  the  doctor 
himself.  He  saw  nothing  but  Greif,  and  his  impression  of 
Hilda's  appearance  was  no  clearer  than  it  had  been  when  she 
had  rushed  past  him  at  the  door  with  a  gleam  like  a  meteor. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Greif  was  asleep.  If  all  went  well  he 
might  remain  in  this  state  for  any  length  of  time  from  twelve  to 
twenty-four  hours.  Hilda  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  leave  the 
room  with  her  mother.  The  assistant  took  his  place  by  the  bed 
side,  and  Rex  was  with  the  doctor  in  the  adjoining  apartment. 

"  Science  is  a  very  pretty  plaything,"  said  the  great  authority, 
stroking  his  grey  beard  thoughtfully.  "You  know  so  much, 
Herr  Rex,  that  you  and  I  can  afford  to  look  at  each  other  like 
the  augurs  and  laugh,  for  we  certainly  know  nothing  at  all. 
I  would  have  wagered  my  reputation  against  a  hospital  assistant's 
pay,  that  our  friend  had  not  sixty  seconds  of  life  in  him,  when 
that  young  lady  appeared,  like  a  fiery  whirlwind,  and  caught 
him  back  to  earth  in  the  nick  of  time." 

"Science  unfortunately  does  not  dispose  of  such  young 
ladies,"  answered  Rex  with  a  smile.  "  They  are  not  in  the 
pharmacopoeia." 


258  GREIFEN  STEIN. 

"  She  is  the  most  extraordinary  one  I  ever  saw,"  observed 
the  doctor.  "  There  is  a  vitality  in  her  presence  that  affected 
me  like  electricity  in  a  water  bath.  She  has  eyes  like  Sigmund 
the  Volsung  —  perhaps  he  was  her  ancestor,  since  her  name  is 
Sigmundskron." 

"He  is  said  to  have  been,"  laughed  Rex. 

"  I  can  quite  believe  it.  Now  I  assure  you  that  I  thought  it 
was  all  over.  His  heart  has  been  very  badly  strained,  and 
recently,  and  such  a  case  of  meningitis  I  have  rarely  seen. 
Of  course  he  had  the  advantage  of  careful  treatment ;  but  you 
may  treat  and  treat  as  you  like,  if  the  heart  is  weak  and  ner 
vous  and  strained,  it  may  stop  while  the  rest  of  the  body  has 
strength  enough  left  to  go  on  for  weeks.  I  suppose  they  are 
engaged  to  be  married?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Did  you  hear  her  cry  out  that  she  would  come  in  ?  Her 
mother's  excellent  propriety  would  have  kept  her  out.  But 
the  young  lady  knew  better  than  any  of  us  how  to  save  his 
life." 

Rex  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  when  he  did,  he  turned  the 
subject.  Soon  afterwards  he  went  away,  for  he  felt  that  he 
must  be  alone  in  order  to  think  over  what  had  happened  and 
to  regain  his  natural  equanimity. 

He  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  but  that  Greif  would  now 
recover  quickly,  and  it  seemed  very  probable  that  in  that  case 
he  would  no  longer  hesitate  to  marry  Hilda.  At  the  thought 
of  her,  Rex  experienced  a  disagreeable  sensation  which  even  he 
could  not  understand  at  first.  Hitherto,  his  chief  preoccupa 
tion  had  been  the  marriage,  and  scarcely  an  hour  had  passed, 
so  long  as  he  had  hoped  that  Greif  would  live,  in  which  he  had 
not  contrasted  the  happiness  in  store  for  his  brother,  if  he  took 
Hilda,  with  the  misery  he  would  have  to  encounter  if  he  per 
sisted  in  his  quixotic  determination. 

And  now  that  Rex  had  seen  this  girl,  of  whom  he  had  heard 
and  thought  so  much  during  the  last  ten  days,  he  wished  it 
were  possible  that  Greif  might  remain  Greif  without  her  love. 
The  thought  was  so  selfish  and  seemed  so  unworthy  in  his  own 
eyes  that  Rex  concentrated  his  mind  in  an  attempt  to  explain  it. 

In  the  first  place,  he  felt  a  curious  disappointment  in  the 
midst  of  his  rejoicing  over  Greif's  improvement.  He  himself 
had  been  untiring,  faithful,  by  day  and  night,  in  watching  over 


GREIFENSTEIN.  259 

and  taking  care  of  the  only  human  being  he  loved  in  the  world. 
He  wanted  no  man's  gratitude,  but  he  had  longed  earnestly  for 
the  satisfaction  of  saving  Greif  himself,  of  feeling  that  his  first 
attempt  at  living  for  another,  instead  of  for  his  own  individual 
advantage,  had  been  crowned  with  success.  He  had  spared  no 
fatigue,  and  he  had  suffered  every  varying  torture  of  anxiety 
and  doubtful  hope  to  the  end.  And  yet,  when  the  end  was 
reached,  Greif  was  dying.  Neither  Rex's  care  nor  Rex's  devo 
tion  could  have  kept  him  from  slipping  over  the  boundary. 
Then  the  door  had  opened,  a  woman  had  entered,  and  Greif 
had  revived  at  the  very  moment  of  extinction.  A  bright-haired 
girl,  with  gleaming  eyes,  had  done  in  one  second  what  neither 
the  physician's  science  nor  Rex's  loving  watchfulness  could 
have  hoped  to  do.  To  a  man  who  has  cared  little  for  women 
and  has  thought  much  of  himself,  it  is  humiliating  to  see  a  girl 
accomplish  by  her  mere  presence  what  all  his  intelligence  and 
energy  and  forethought  have  failed  to  bring  about. 

Then  again,  Rex  saw  that  in  the  future  there  was  nothing 
for  Greif  but  Hilda.  Rex  might  be  swept  out  of  existence,  but 
so  long  as  Hilda  remained,  Greif  would  merely  feel  a  passing 
regret  for  the  man  he  believed  to  be  his  cousin,  a  regret  which 
Hilda's  love  would  help  him  to  outlive  in  a  few  weeks,  or 
months,  at  the  most.  He  hated  himself  for  his  selfishness,  and 
realised  that  a  new  phase  of  his  life  had  begun  that  day. 

The  impulses  and  impressions  that  beset  him  were  only 
transitory  and  not  likely  to  affect  his  conduct.  His  fondness 
for  Greif  was  such  that  he  would  certainly  rejoice  honestly  over 
his  marriage  and  feel  the  most  genuine  hopes  for  his  happiness. 
The  only  trace  the  passing  hour  would  leave  with  him  would  be 
an  unexpressed  antipathy  for  Hilda.  He  knew,  or  he  thought 
that  he  knew,  how  easily  his  systematic  habits  of  thought  could 
conquer  such  a  tendency  and  reason  it  away  into  emptiness, 
and  he  went  downstairs  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  his 
brother's  future  wife  with  the  fullest  determination  to  like  her 
for  Greif's  sake,  and  never  again  to  submit  to  a  frame  of  mind 
which  was  contemptible  if  it  was  not  utterly  base.  Could  any 
thing  be  more  inconsistent  than  to  let  his  joy  at  the  prospect  of 
his  brother's  recovery  be  clouded,  because  the  result  was  not 
wholly  due  to  himself?  Could  anything  be  more  absurdly 
foolish  than  to  conceive  a  dislike  for  a  woman  whom  Greif 
must  marry  to  be  saved  from  ruin  and  shatne  ? 


260  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTEE   XXI. 

GREIF  recovered  quickly.  In  due  time  the  celebrated  physi 
cian  departed  in  great  peace,  hoping  that  chance  might  soon 
send  such  another  case  into  his  way.  Greif  and  Rex  lived 
together  in  Greifenstein,  and  Hilda  and  her  mother  were  at 
Sigmundskron.  But  the  distance  between  the  two  places  had 
grown  very  short  of  late,  and  scarcely  a  day  passed  on  which 
Hilda  and  Greif  did  not  meet. 

He  was  not  quite  as  strong  yet  as  he  had  been  before  his  ill 
ness,  but  the  time  was  not  far  distant  when  he  would  be  able 
again  to  get  into  the  saddle  and  make  short  work  of  the  twenty 
miles  that  separated  him  from  Hilda.  There  had  never  been 
so  many  horses  in  the  Greifenstein  stables  as  now,  for  the 
work  was  hard  and  continuous  and  the  roads  bad.  To  make 
matters  easier,  Greif  had  sent  a  strong  pair  to  Sigmundskron, 
so  that  the  two  ladies  might  drive  over  whenever  they  were 
inclined  to  do  so. 

On  a  sunny  day  in  April  the  two  men  were  walking  together 
in  the  garden,  backwards  and  forwards  from  the  parapet  that 
followed  the  edge  of  the  precipice  to  the  porch  of  the  house. 
Greif  rested  his  hand  on  Rex's  arm,  more  out  of  habit  now  than 
because  he  needed  support,  and  as  they  paced  the  smooth  path 
the  two  talked  in  a  desultory  way  upon  whatever  was  uppermost 
in  their  thoughts. 

"  It  seems  as  though  my  illness  had  lasted  a  year,"  Greif  said. 
"  I  have  even  got  so  far  that  I  do  not  care  to  leave  this  place, 
after  all." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  "  Rex  asked. 

"It  would  be  natural,"  answered  Greif  rather  gravely.  "I 
should  have  expected  to  prefer  any  spot  of  the  world  to  this." 

"  Man  is  the  world,  and  all  that  therein  is,  and  the  earth  he 
stands  on,  is  no  more  to  him  than  the  clothes  he  wears.  If  a 
thought  is  in  your  heart,  can  you  get  rid  of  it  by  changing  your 
coat?  And  besides,  in  the  long  run  a  man  prefers  his  own  coat 


GREIFENSTEIN.  261 

and  his  own  patch  of  earth  —  both  are  sure  to  fit  him  better 
than  those  of  other  people." 

"  I  think  you  are  right.  Rex,  did  I  act  like  a  madman  before 
I  was  taken  ill?"  He  asked  the  question  rather  suddenly. 
Hitherto  Rex  had  avoided  mentioning  what  was  past  as  well  as 
he  could. 

"  Yes  —  you  were  quite  mad,"  he  answered.  "  You  fought 
windmills.  That  is  always  a  bad  sign." 

"  It  is  fortunate  that  I  broke  down  just  then.  Suppose  that  I 
had  held  out  long  enough  to  go  away  and  that  I  had  fallen  ill  in 
some  distant  place,  and  that  Hilda  had  not  come  —  I  should  not 
have  had  much  chance." 

"  No.    I  was  very  jealous  of  her,  I  remember." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  she  saved  you,  and  I  could  not,"  answered  Rex. 
"Because  it  is  disagreeable  for  a  selfish  man  to  feel  that  a 
woman's  eyes  are  better  than  his  skill  or  strength." 

Greif  looked  at  his  companion  as  though  he  did  not  quite 
understand,  but  the  smile  upon  the  latter's  face  made  matters 
somewhat  clearer.  He  would  not  have  liked  to  think  that  Rex 
was  quite  in  earnest. 

"  But  for  you,"  he  answered,  "  I  should  have  died  long  before 
Hilda  came." 

"  Not  at  all.  If  you  had  shown  signs  of  giving  up  the  ghost 
earlier,  I  would  have  sent  sooner.  But  it  was  a  narrow  escape. 
Another  minute  would  have  done  it,  as  I  have  often  told  you." 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  have  not  yet  spoken  to  them  about  the 
marriage  ?  " 

"  Then  there  is  no  need  of  saying  anything.  They  understand 
as  well  as  you.  You  need  only  fix  the  wedding-day." 

"  Not  yet,"  answered  Greif.     "  It  is  too  soon." 

"  Is  it  ever  too  soon  to  be  happy  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  —  but  I  will  go  to  Sigmundskron  to-morrow  and 
talk  about  it." 

"  In  that  case  you  will  be  married  in  three  months,"  observed 
Rex  with  a  laugh. 

"  Not  so  soon  —  we  must  let  the  year  pass  first.  It  would  not 
be  decent." 

"  Decency  is  that  mode  of  demeanour  in  ourselves  which  sat 
isfies  the  traditional  likes  or  dislikes  of  others.  There  is  noth 
ing  else  in  it." 


262  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  begin  a  discussion  about  comparative 
right,  I  will  say  nothing  more.  I  have  lost  my  taste  for  argu 
ment,  and  I  never  had  much  skill  in  it." 

"  We  will  not  discuss  the  matter,"  replied  Rex.  "  You  will 
be  married  in  August." 

".I  think  not." 

"  We  shall  see." 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  to-morrow?"  asked  Greif,  relinquish 
ing  the  contest. 

"You  had  better  go  alone,  and  I  shall  be  best  here,  with  my 
books.  You  will  not  need  me  to  help  you  to  settle  matters." 

"  Why  do  you  so  rarely  go  with  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  ?  " 

"  To  keep  me  company.     It  is  a  long  drive." 

"  The  entertainment,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  is  not  of  a 
wildly  exciting  character,  when  you  are  talking  to  Fraulein  von 
Sigmundskron,  and  her  mother  is  doing  needlework,  and  I  am 
thrown  upon  my  own  resources.  Whereas  if  I  stay  at  home 
and  read,  I  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  your  very  good  descrip 
tion  of  all  that  I  should  have  been  entitled  to  see  and  hear  had 
I  been  present  myself.  The  description  occupies  five  minutes ; 
the  expedition  takes  a  whole  day.  I  will  stay  at  home,  thank 
you." 

"  But  it  gives  them  pleasure  to  see  you,"  objected  Greif. 

"  Does  your  cousin  regret  my  absence  from  the  sitting-room 
when  she  is  walking  with  you  upon  the  sunny  side  of  the  ram 
parts  ?  " 

"  How  did  you  know  that  we  walked  there  ?  "  asked  Greif 
with  a  laugh. 

"  On  the  same  principle  which  teaches  me  that  a  dog  will 
walk  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street  —  because  you  would  not 
be  likely  to  walk  in  the  shade  at  this  time  of  year.  Did  you 
say  that  Fraulein  von  Sigmundskron  regretted  my  absence  on 
such  occasions  ?  " 

"  She  always  asks  after  you  when  you  do  not  come.  Why  do 
you  call  her  by  such  long  names?  'Cousin  Hilda'  is  quite 
enough." 

"  It  is  not  a  cousinship  she  could  be  very  proud  of.  I  pre 
fer  not  to  force  it  upon  her.  She  could  not  call  me  '  Cousin 
Horst.'  " 

"  She  will  have  as  much  cause  to  be  proud  of  your  cousinship 


GBEIFENSTEIN.  263 

as  of  having  rne  for  a  husband,"  said  Greif,  stopping  in  his 
walk  and  looking  at  Rex.  "  Whatever  you  say  of  yourself 
applies  equally  well  to  me  in  this  matter." 

Rex  said  nothing,  but  he  thought  of  all  the  truth  there  was 
in  the  words  which  Greif  did  not  know,  and  never  must  know. 
He  had  not  told  all  his  reasons  for  not  going  to  Sigmundskron, 
either,  and  if  he  had  told  them,  they  might  not  have  been  alto 
gether  pleasing  to  Greif.  He  was  ashamed  of  them,  even  before 
himself,  and  thought  of  them  as  little  as  possible. 

Hilda's  presence  affected  him  unpleasantly.  What  he  felt, 
when  he  was  with  her,  strongly  resembled  an  unconquerable 
dislike,  which  was  at  the  same  time  wholly  inexplicable  to  him 
self.  He  could  appreciate  her  beauty  only  when  he  was  at  a 
distance  from  her,  and  then  the  memory  of  it  attracted  rather 
than  repelled  him.  When  she  spoke,  he  had  an  instinctive 
longing  to  give  her  a  sharp  answer,  which  was  smothered  in  a 
phrase  of  meaningless  politeness ;  but  he  afterwards  took  delight 
in  fancying  what  her  expression  would  have  been  if  he  had 
really  said  what  had  suggested  itself  to  him.  He  could  not 
explain  the  intense  antagonism  he  sometimes  felt  against  her 
by  any  theory  or  experience  of  psychology  with  which  he  was 
acquainted.  Her  look  annoyed  him,  her  slightest  gesture  irri 
tated  him,  the  sound  of  her  voice  distressed  his  ear.  Even  her 
grace  of  motion  jarred  upon  him,  and  he  wished  she  could  be 
clumsy  and  slow  instead  of  swift  and  sure.  He  had  disliked 
women  before,  but  never  in  the  peculiar  way  he  disliked  Hilda. 
Everything  she  did  looked  wrong,  though  he  knew  it  was  right ; 
every  word  she  uttered  sounded  false  to  him,  though  he  was 
well  aware  that  she  was  one  of  the  most  truthful  and  true- 
hearted  persons  he  had  ever  known. 

He  supposed  that  what  he  felt  had  taken  its  origin  in  a 
ridiculous  jealousy,  on  that  day  when  her  appearance  had 
revived  Greif  at  the  last  moment,  and  he  recurred  to  the  scene 
constantly  and  tried  to  magnify  his  first  impression  in  order  to 
make  his  present  state  of  mind  seem  a  little  more  reasonable. 
He  only  half  succeeded,  however,  though  he  kept  what  he 
thought  to  be  his  own  folly  clearly  before  him  at  their  next 
meeting  and  forced  his  manner  and  his  voice  to  obey  his  com 
mon  sense. 

The  result  of  all  this  was  that  Rex  was  once  more  growing 
dissatisfied  with  his  life.  Had  he  felt  sure  of  Greif's  future  he 


264  GREIFENSTEIN. 

would  have  gone  away  and  would  not  have  returned  until  a 
long  lapse  of  time,  and  a  constant  change  of  scene,  had  obliter 
ated  what  was  so  disagreeable  to  himself.  His  prudence  warned 
him,  however,  that  lie  should  stay  until  all  was  settled,  and 
Greif  was  married  to  Hilda.  After  that,  it  mattered  little  what 
became  of  him.  He  reflected  with  satisfaction  that  he  was  over 
forty  years  of  age,  and  that,  even  if  he  chose  to  live  out  his  life, 
he  was  not  likely  to  survive  his  brother.  Whether  he  should 
not  one  day  find  himself  so  weary  of  it  all  as  to  anticipate  his 
end  by  a  score  of  years,  was  a  point  about  which  he  thought 
much.  Such  tragedies  as  had  darkened  Greifenstein  rarely  take 
place  where  there  is  not  a  fatal  tendency  to  suicide  in  the  blood. 
Death  had  never  seemed  horrible  to  Rex  in  any  shape  ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  took  pleasure  in  speculating  upon  its  possibilities 
and  in  dreaming  of  the  sensations  which  the  supreme  moment 
would  evoke.  To  a  mind  altogether  destitute  of  any  tran 
scendental  belief  whatsoever,  death  appears  to  be  merely  the 
end  of  life,  to  be  made  as  little  disagreeable  as  possible  and 
encountered  with  such  equanimity  as  a  philosopher  can  com 
mand.  To  such  men  as  Rex,  the  idea  that  there  is  any  obli 
gation  to  live  if  one  prefers  to  die,  does  not  present  itself,  and 
when  they  inherit  from  their  fathers  an  indifference  to  life,  the 
danger  that  they  may  part  with  it  too  readily  is  seldom  far  distant. 
The  thought  of  Greif  had  prevented  Rex  from  stepping  over  the 
limit,  and  his  affection  for  him  would  probably  have  kept  off 
such  gloomy  thoughts  altogether  for  a  long  time,  if  Greif  had 
depended  upon  his  companionship.  But  as  Greif  recovered  and 
this  dependence  grew  less  and  less  a  matter  of  necessity  Rex 
grew  weary  again.  If  he  had  not  felt  as  he  did  in  regard  to 
Hilda,  the  two  would  have  been  more  together  than  they 
actually  were,  and  Greif  would  not  so  often  have  driven  twice 
in  a  day  alone  over  the  twenty  miles  that  separated  his  house 
from  Sigmundskron.  Rex  saw  this,  and  saw  that  Hilda  was 
taking  his  place,  and  he  became  disgusted  with  himself  and  the 
existence  he  was  leading.  Nevertheless,  his  naturally  firm 
character  made  his  outward  demeanour  even  and  unchangeable. 
He  was  determined  that  if  he  must  be  ridiculous  in  his  own 
eyes,  he  would  not  appear  to  be  so  in  the  eyes  of  others.  For 
the  present  he  could  not  leave  Greifenstein,  for  he  could  be  of 
use  to  Greif,  who  would  sooner  or  later  be  obliged  to  put  his 
affairs  in  order,  and  examine  the  papers  left  by  his  father. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  265 

Rex  feared  indeed,  lest  among  these  should  be  discovered  some 
letter  from  the  dead  man,  explaining  to  his  son  what  had  been 
so  clearly  told  to  Rex  himself.  A  superficial  search  had  dis 
covered  nothing,  but  he  reflected  that  at  such  a  moment  a  man 
might  well  put  what  he  had  written  in  a  place  where  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  concealing  precious  documents,  instead  of  laying  it 
upon  the  table.  Rex  was  determined  to  have  the  chief  hand  in 
the  examination  of  what  was  found,  and  to  abstract  and  destroy 
unopened  anything  which  looked  like  a  letter  to  Greif.  He 
cared  little  for  any  justification  in  pursuing  such  a  course; 
from  what  he  had  learned  of  old  Greifenstein  he  believed  that 
he  would  have  been  capable  of  telling  the  plain  truth  to  his  son 
and  of  enjoining  upon  him  to  give  up  his  name,  and  to  hand 
over  his  whole  fortune  to  the  Sigmundskrons.  He  had  been  a 
stern  man  with  fearfully  rigid  traditions  of  honour,  incapable, 
Rex  thought,  of  allowing  Greif  to  practise  an  unconscious 
deception,  willing  that  he  should  come  to  a  miserable  end 
rather  than  seem,  even  for  a  moment,  to  be  what  he  was  not. 
It  was  almost  inconceivable  to  Rex  that  he  should  have  died 
without  writing  a  few  words  to  his  son,  and  if  he  had  done  so, 
Rex  had  little  doubt  as  to  what  the  letter  would  contain. 
Should  it  be  found,  he  intended  to  do  his  utmost  to  destroy  it, 
unknown  to  Greif,  and  in  the  meanwhile,  he  did  all  in  his 
power  to  hasten  the  marriage  and  to  put  off  the  evil  day  when 
the  papers  must  be  examined. 

The  lives  of  the  two  were  made  somewhat  irregular  by  Greif 's 
constant  visits  to  Sigmundskron,  and  occasionally  by  the  com 
ing  of  the  baroness  and  Hilda.  The  good  lady  thought  that 
there  was  little  dignity  in  bringing  her  daughter  to  Greifenstein, 
but  she  was  quite  unable  to  oppose  Hilda's  determination.  So 
long  as  Greif  had  been  only  in  the  convalescent  stage  it  had 
seemed  proper  enough  that  the  baroness  should  occasionally 
come  in  person  to  make  inquiries,  the  more  so  as  Greif  had 
placed  a  pair  of  horses  at  her  disposal  for  this  very  purpose  as 
soon  as  he  could  give  an  order  of  any  sort.  Now  that  he  was 
perfectly  well,  however,  she  felt  that  in  spite  of  the  relationship 
it  was  strangely  contrary  to  custom  for  two  ladies  to  visit  a 
young  man  who  lived  alone.  She  would  not  have  been  a  Ger 
man  of  her  class  if  she  had  not  felt  this,  but  she  would  not  have 
been  herself  if  she  had  allowed  a  scruple  of  etiquette  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  Hilda's  happiness. 


266  GRE1FEN  STEIN. 

There  was  still  an  element  of  uncertainty  in  the  situation 
which  caused  her  some  anxious  moments.  Since  his  recovery 
Greif  had  never  approached  the  question  of  marriage.  It  was 
indeed  early  yet,  but  the  opportunities  had  already  been  numer 
ous,  and  he  had  not  taken  advantage  of  any.  The  only  point 
which  favoured  the  impression  that  he  had  changed  his  mind, 
was  his  frank  and  easy  manner  together  with  his  evident  desire 
to  see  as  much  of  Hilda  as  possible.  But  he  had  not  spoken. 
The  baroness  was  keen  enough  to  fancy  that  he  was  prevented 
from  referring  to  the  subject  by  the  painful  reminiscence  of  his 
last  interview  at  Sigmundskron,  and  by  a  natural  feeling  of 
shame  at  the  thought  of  retracting  what  he  had  once  taken  such 
infinite  pains  to  say.  She  was  determined  that  the  matter 
should  be  put  upon  a  sound  basis  as  soon  as  possible,  and  sho 
promised  herself  to  lead  the  conversation  to  the  marriage  when 
ever  she  had  a  chance. 

Unfortunately  for  her  intentions  the  chance  did  not  present 
itself,  for  Greif  spent  the  time  of  his  visits  with  Hilda,  and 
talked  as  little  as  possible  to  her  mother.  The  latter  could 
almost  have  found  courage  to  come  alone  to  Greifenstein,  but 
Hilda  would  not  have  allowed  her  to  do  so,  for  she  would  not 
have  been  willing  to  miss  an  opportunity  of  a  meeting.  In  this 
way  matters  had  continued  for  some  time  after  Greif  had  been 
well  enough  to  decide  finally  upon  his  own  future  as  well  as 
upon  Hilda's,  until  he  himself  felt  that  he  must  soon  speak  his 
mind,  or  be  very  much  ashamed  of  himself  for  his  hesitation. 

Of  all  concerned,  Hilda  was  the  one  whose  character  had 
changed  the  most  since  the  events  of  the  winter.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  had  never  before  realised  what  she  was,  nor  what 
she  was  able  to  accomplish  in  the  world.  From  the  day  of 
Greif's  refusal  to  marry  her  at  Sigmundskron  she  had  developed 
suddenly,  from  a  simple  girl  into  a  strong  and  dominant  woman. 
After  Greif  had  left  her  on  that  day  she  had  still  felt  as  certain 
of  marrying  him  as  though  they  were  already  going  to  the  altar. 
When  she  had  known  that  he  was  really  ill  she  had  felt  an 
inward  conviction  that  he  would  recover  quickly.  When  she 
had  found  him  dying  she  had  known  that  she  could  save  his 
life.  She  had  acquired  a  sense  of  certainty  which  nothing  could 
disturb,  and  which  had  developed  simultaneously  with  a  moral 
energy  no  one  had  before  suspected  that  she  possessed.  If  there 
had  ever  been  any  resistance  on  either  side  the  baroness  would 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  267 

not  have  felt  as  though  her  daughter  had  suddenly  taken  the 
mastery  over  her,  but  there  had  been  none.  Never,  in  their 
peaceful  lives,  had  they  experienced  opposite  desires  or  incom 
patible  impulses.  It  had  never  seemed  as  though  Hilda  were 
submitting  to  her  mother,  even  when  she  was  a  child,  because 
their  wishes  appeared  to  be  always  exactly  the  same,  so  that 
Hilda  would  have  done  of  her  own  freewill,  and  if  left  to  her 
self,  precisely  what  her  mother  desired  her  to  do.  The  conse 
quence  was  that  since  Hilda  had  found  that  she  had  a  will  of 
her  own,  she  had  imposed  it  upon  her  mother  with  the  greatest 
ease;  for  the  latter  was  so  much  taken  by  surprise  at  Hilda's 
initiative,  as  to  take  refuge  in  believing  that  the  girl  must  really 
want  what  she  herself  wanted,  and  that  it  was  only  the  appear 
ance  which  made  the  result  look  different.  It  was  only  a  half 
belief,  after  all,  for  she  could  not  help  seeing  that  circumstances 
had  .singularly  developed  the  girl's  character,  and  that  they  had 
been  of  a  nature  to  do  so,  exceptional,  startling  and  trying  in 
every  way.  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  liked  to  fancy  that  she 
could  still  control  every  impulse  Hilda  showed,  as  well  as  for 
merly,  but  she  could  not  help  being  proud  of  her  daughter's 
strength,  for  Hilda  was  like  her  father,  a  man  who,  with  the 
sweetest  temper  imaginable,  had  dared  anything  that  a  man 
may  dare. 

Greif  carried  out  his  intention  of  going  to  Sigmundskron  on 
the  day  after  his  conversation  with  Rex.  During  the  drive  he 
thought  of  what  was  before  him,  as  he  had  thought  three 
months  earlier,  when  the  prospect  had  been  very  different. 

At  present  he  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  delay  his 
retractation  any  longer.  So  far  as  his  happiness  was  concerned, 
the  situation  might  last  until  the  eve  of  the  wedding-day,  but 
there  were  other  considerations  to  be  thought  of,  which  he  could 
not  disregard.  Hilda  and  he  understood  each  other  without 
words,  but  Hilda's  mother  could  not  be  expected  to  understand 
without  a  formal  explanation.  She  had  a  right  to  it.  Greif's 
last  act  before  his  illness  had  been  to  refuse  the  marriage ;  the 
baroness  was  entitled  not  only  to  know  from  his  own  lips  that 
he  had  changed  his  mind,  but  also  to  be  consulted  in  the  matter, 
as  a  question  of  courtesy.  Greif  did  not  know  exactly  how  to 
manage  it.  To  his  mind  there  would  be  something  inexpressi 
bly  ridiculous  in  asking  an  interview  with  Frau  von  Sigmund 
skron,  for  the  purpose  of  formally  requesting,  a  second  time, 


268  GREIFENSTEIN. 

the  honour  of  her  daughter's  hand.  And  yet  he  assuredly 
could  not  go  to  her  and  say  bluntly  that  he  had  changed  his 
mind  and  intended  to  take  Hilda  after  all.  Anything  between 
the  two  must  necessarily  take  the  shape  of  an  apology  of  some 
sort  and  of  a  retractation,  though  Greif  felt  that  he  had  done 
nothing  needing  an  apology.  He  could  not  ask  the  baroness's 
forgiveness  for  having  been  stubbornly  determined  to  sacrifice 
his  whole  life  rather  than  injure  her  daughter  by  giving  her  his 
name.  It  was  true  that  he  now  saw  the  matter  differently,  per 
ceiving  that  he  had  done  all  that  a  man  of  the  most  quixotic 
chivalry  could  do  to  prove  the  case  against  himself,  and  that 
his  judges  refused  wholly  to  be  convinced.  He  did  not  regret 
what  he  had  done,  though  he  was  willing  to  believe  that  he  had 
gone  too  far  in  the  right  direction.  He  had  offended  no  one, 
for  his  whole  conduct  had  been  guided  by  the  consideration  of 
others.  He  had  therefore  nothing  to  be  forgiven  him,  and  no 
shadow  of  a  reason  for  putting  himself  in  the  position  of  a 
penitent.  To  say  that  he  had  been  mistaken,  and  to  try  and 
shift  the  responsibility  of  his  action  upon  his  illness,  was  not  to 
his  taste  either.  He  had  not  refused  to  marry  Hilda  because 
he  had  been  ill  at  the  time,  but  because  he  had  been  convinced 
that  he  ought  to  do  so.  At  present  he  was  grateful  both  to  her 
and  to  her  mother  for  their  readiness  to  oppose  his  self-sacrifice. 
That  at  least  he  could  say ;  but  after  that  it  would  be  necessary 
in  common  courtesy  to  put  to  the  baroness  the  question  old 
Greifenstein  had  asked  long  ago,  in  other  words,  to  renew  the 
formal  proposition  of  marriage.  As  a  man  of  honour  it  was 
indispensable  that  he  should  clearly  define  his  position  without 
further  delay,  and  he  could  see  no  other  way  of  defining  it, 
satisfactory  to  himself  and  to  the  exigencies  of  his  courteous 
rule  of  life. 

There  was  still  another  matter  to  be  decided,  and  which  did 
not  tend  to  make  the  coming  interview  seem  easier.  The  origin 
of  the  whole  difficulty  had  not  been  removed,  and  although  Greif 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  submit  to  the  happiness  which  was 
thrust  upon  him,  he  still  felt  that  to  marry  Hilda  under  his  own 
name  would  be  out  of  the  question.  He  was  even  more  sure  of 
this  than  before,  for  he  had  learned  during  his  convalescence 
that  the  tragedy  of  Greifenstein  had  been  described  in  every 
paper  of  the  empire,  and  he  knew  that  it  must  be  the  common 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  269 

topic  of  conversation.  His  old  comrades  at  Schwarzburg  had 
read  the  story  and  had  written,  some  offering  condolences,  some 
refusing  to  believe  the  tale  at  all.  The  professors  of  the  Uni 
versity  whose  lectures  Greif  had  chiefly  attended,  had  written 
in  various  manners,  and  the  Magnificus  himself  had  deigned 
to  offer  his  sympathy  in  a  singularly  human  manner.  Most  of 
these  communications  had  been  answered  by  Rex,  who  explained 
that  Greif  had  been  seriously  ill,  and  Greif  himself  replied  to 
the  more  important  ones.  The  horror  of  the  story  was  known 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  and  wherever  Greif 
might  go  for  years  to  come,  his  name  would  instantly  recall  the 
terrible  details  of  the  triple  crime.  All  the  arguments  Greif 
had  formerly  used  with  so  much  force  remained  unshaken,  and 
he  felt  that  there  could  be  but  one  way  of  placing  himself 
and  Hilda  beyond  their  reach.  Had  Hilda  never  existed,  he 
would  have  determined  to  live  in  retirement,  and  to  allow  his 
race  to  be  extinguished  in  his  own  person,  rather  than  perpetu 
ate  the  memory  of  such  deeds.  As  it  was,  he  had  given  up  the 
thought,  for  the  love  of  her,  and  he  knew  that  there  was  happi 
ness  in  store  for  him.  In  order  to  accept  it,  however,  he  must 
be  no  longer  Greifenstein. 

It  was  strange  that  each  of  the  three  in  turn,  Rex,  the 
baroness,  and  lastly,  Hilda  herself,  should  have  suggested  the 
advisability  of  his  taking  the  name  of  Sigmundskron  in  place 
of  his  own.  Clearly,  it  was  the  only  course  open  to  him,  but  it 
was  a  curious  coincidence  that  they  should  all  have  had  the 
same  thought.  On  the  whole  he  was  ready  to  follow  their 
advice,  but  as  he  drew  near  to  his  destination  he  realised  that 
it  must  be  the  first  point  settled.  He  did  not  exactly  know 
how  to  formulate  his  request,  for  he  had  never  known  anybody 
who  had  asked  another  for  his  name.  He  almost  wished  that 
Hilda  could  manage  it  for  him,  which  was  a  proof  that  he  had 
not  yet  altogether  recovered  his  strength. 

He  was  glad  that  Rex  had  not  come,  after  all.  It  was  one  of 
those  errands  which  he  preferred  to  accomplish  alone.  More 
over,  for  some  reason  which  he  could  not  guess,  Rex  seemed  to 
avoid  the  Sigmundskrons  as  much  as  he  could.  That  he  should 
never  remain  long  in  conversation  with  Hilda,  Greif  thought 
natural ;  his  cousin's  action  might  proceed  from  delicacy,  of  a 
curiously  unusual  kind,  or  it  might  be  the  result  of  Rex's  con- 


270  GREIFENSTEIN. 

stant  wish  to  leave  the  two  together  as  much  as  possible.  In 
either  case  it  was  not  altogether  surprising.  But  Greif  often 
wished  that  Rex  would  take  the  trouble  to  talk  to  the  baroness, 
so  that  she  might  not  be  left  so  much  alone.  It  would  have 
completed  the  party  and  made  every  one  feel  more  easy ;  after 
all,  Rex  was  a  man  forty  years  of  age,  and  might  reasonably  be 
expected  to  devote  his  attention  with  a  good  grace  to  a  lady 
who  was  not  much  older  than  himself,  though  her  white  hair 
contrasted  oddly  with  his  uncommonly  youthful  appearance. 
But  Rex  hardly  ever  failed  to  find  some  excuse  for  staying  at 
home  when  Greif  went  to  Sigmundskron,  and  when  the  ladies 
came  to  Greifenstein  he  generally  made  his  appearance  as  late 
as  possible.  Nevertheless  Greif  believed  that  his  cousin  did 
not  dislike  the  Sigmundskrons,  and  it  was  certain  that  both 
mother  and  daughter  thought  extremely  well  of  him.  Greif 
could  not  explain  Rex's  coldness,  and  was  obliged  to  ascribe  it 
to  some  uncommon  bias  of  a  remarkable  character  which  he 
had  never  wholly  understood. 

Being  full  of  such  thoughts,  the  time  that  had  elapsed,  be 
tween  the  present  day  and  the  memorable  visit  three  months 
earlier,  seemed  to  Greif  to  have  dropped  away  with  all  it  had 
contained.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  refused  the  marriage  but 
yesterday  and  were  going  to  take  back  his  refusal  to-day.  Only 
the  weather  had  changed  between  then  and  now.  On  that 
morning  the  ground  had  been  covered  with  snow,  and  a  bitter 
wind  that  cut  like  a  knife  had  been  blowing  across  the  road. 
It  was  even  yet  not  spring,  but  the  snow  was  all  gone,  and  the 
frost  was  thawing  out  of  the  ground  under  the  warm  sun.  In  a 
few  days  the  white  thorn  would  begin  to  bud,  and  fresh  green 
violet  leaves  would  come  out  along  the  borders  of  the  woods.  A 
few  birds  were  already  circling  in  the  air  above  the  fir-tops  as 
though  expecting  to  find  the  flies  there  already.  The  warmth 
and  the  moisture  of  everything  brought  out  the  sweet  smell 
of  the  forest  and  blew  it  into  Greif 's  face  at  every  turn  of  the 
drive. 

For  the  twentieth  time  since  he  had  been  well  enough  to  go 
out,  he  watched  the  sturdy  horses'  backs  as  they  drew  the  light 
carriage  up  the  last  steep  ascent.  For  the  twentieth  time  he 
looked  up  as  he  reached  the  point  whence  the  lower  battlements 
of  the  half-ruined  castle  were  visible.  As  often  happened,  he 


GBEIFENSTEIN.  271 

descried  Hilda's  tall  figure  against  the  sky,  and  then  immedi 
ately  the  gleam  of  something  white,  waved  high  to  welcome 
him.  He  wondered  how  she  always  knew  when  he  was  coming. 
But  Hilda  had  found  that  when  he  came  he  naturally  started 
always  at  the  same  hour,  so  that  every  morning  she  went  up, 
and  stood  on  the  rampart  for  twenty  minutes,  scanning  every 
bit  of  the  winding  road  that  was  in  sight.  At  the  end  of  that 
time,  if  she  had  not  seen  the  carriage,  she  knew  that  he  was 
not  coming,  and  descended  again  into  the  interior,  her  face  less 
bright  and  her  eyes  less  glad  than  when  she  had  gone  up  the 
steps. 

There  she  was  to-day,  in  her  accustomed  place,  and  a  moment 
later  the  sun  caught  the  white  handkerchief  she  waved.  As  he 
flourished  his  in  return,  Greif  wondered  how  he  could  ever  have 
come  over  that  same  road  with  the  fixed  purpose  of  bidding 
farewell  for  ever  to  her  who  awaited  him,  and  he  was  amazed  at 
his  own  courage  in  having  executed  his  intention,  for  he  felt 
that  he  could  not  do  as  much  now.  But  there  was  little  time 
left  him  for  reflexion.  Five  minutes  later  the  carriage  rattled 
through  the  gate  into  the  wide  paved  court,  swung  round  upon 
its  wheels  and  stopped  before  the  hall  door.  Out  of  the  dim 
shadow  Hilda  came  quickly  forward  and  took  his  hands,  and 
they  were  together  once  more,  as  they  had  been  so  often  during 
the  last  month  and  a  half. 

"  I  have  not  come  to  see  you,"  said  Greif,  with  a  laugh  that 
only  half  concealed  his  embarrassment.  "  I  have  to  request  the 
honour  of  an  interview  with  your  mother  to-day." 

Hilda  looked  at  him  a  moment  and  then  laughed,  too. 

"  Has  it  come  to  this,  Greif !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  It  has  come  to  this,"  he  answered,  his  mirth  subsiding  at 
the  prospect  of  what  was  before  him. 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  say  ?  "  she  asked.  "  That  you 
have  changed  your  mind?  That  you  yield  to  pressure ?  That 
you  are  the  lawful  prey  of  one  Hilda  von  Sigmundskron  and 
cannot  escape  your  fate?  Or  that  you  were  very  ill  and  never 
meant  it,  and  are  very  sorry,  and  will  never  do  so  again  ?  Why 
did  you  not  bring  Rex  to  talk  to  me  while  you  are  explaining 
everything  to  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Rex  would  not  come  to-day.     He  sends  his  homage  —  " 

"  He  always  does  —  I  believe  you  invent  it  —  the  message  I 


272  GBEIFENSTEIN. 

mean.  Rex  hates  me,  Greif.  Do  you  know  why  ?  Because  he 
is  jealous.  He  thinks  you  do  not  care  for  his  society  any 
longer  —  " 

"  That  is  absurd  —  you  must  not  say  such  foolish  things !  " 
They  reached  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  as  he  spoke.     Greif 
entered  and  found  himself  with  the  baroness.     Hilda  closed  the 
door  when  he  had  gone  in  and  went  away,  leaving  the  two 
together. 


GKEIFEN  STEIN.  273 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

FRAU  VON  SIGMUNDSKRON  was  somewhat  surprised  when  she 
saw  Greif  enter  the  room  without  Hilda.  Greif  went  up  to  her 
with  the  determination  of  a  man  who  means  to  lose  no  time  in 
getting  through  an  unpleasant  business. 

"Aunt  Therese,"  he  said  —  he  called  his  father's  cousin 
"  aunt,"  after  the  German  manner  —  "  I  told  Hilda  that  I  wanted 
to  speak  with  you  alone  —  do  you  mind  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  answered  the  baroness.  "  Sit  down.  I 
will  work  while  you  talk.  It  will  help  me  to  understand  you." 

"  The  matter  is  very  simple,"  said  Greif,  seating  himself.  "  I 
want  to  ask  whether  you  are  still  of  the  same  opinion  in  regard 
to  my  marriage  with  Hilda,  as  before  I  was  taken  ill." 

"  Of  course  I  am  —  "     She  looked  up,  in  some  surprise. 

"  Because  I  am  not,"  said  Greif,  delighted  with  himself  at 
having  found  a  way  to  make  his  aunt  state  her  case  first. 

"Not  of  my  opinion,  or  not  of  your  own  former  opinion?" 
she  inquired,  rather  puzzled. 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  I  now  once  more  ask  for  Hilda's 
hand  —  " 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  laughed,  and  laid  down  her  work,  to 
look  at  his  face.  She  had  not  expected  that  he  would  express 
himself  in  such  a  way.  Then  all  at  once  she  saw  that  he  had 
meant  to  act  in  the  most  loyal  manner  possible,  and  she  grew 
grave,  being  pleased  with  him  as  she  almost  always  was. 

"  Do  you  think  you  need  my  consent  again,  Greif  ?  You  have 
it,  with  all  my  heart.  You  need  hardly  have  asked  it,  for  you 
knew  the  answer  too  well." 

"  It  is  this,"  said  Greif,  coming  to  the  point.  "  In  the  first 
place,  I  knew  very  well  what  you  would  say,  though  I  thank 
you  all  the  same ;  but  it  was  necessary  to  come  to  a  clear  under 
standing,  because  there  is  another  point  to  be  settled  upon  which 
much  must  depend.  What  I  said  three  months  ago  holds  good 
to-day.  As  Greifenstein  I  cannot  marry  Hilda.  As  Greif,  I 


274  GREIFENSTEIN. 

cannot  any  longer  forego  the  happiness  you  and  she  have 
pressed  upon  me.  But  I  must  have  another  name  — 

"Is  it  really  necessary ?"  asked  the  baroness  gravely. 

"  It  seems  so  to  me.  The  papers  have  been  full  of  our  story, 
and  I  have  received  many  letters  of  condolence,  and  some  full  of 
curiosity.  It  is  a  tale  which  no  one  will  forget  for  many  years. 
Few  people  could  help  associating  disgrace  with  so  much  crime. 
I  wish  to  marry  Hilda  under  a  name  by  which  we  may  become 
known  if  we  choose  to  go  into  the  world  hereafter,  and  which 
may  be  free  from  all  disagreeable  associations.  You  your 
self  suggested  that  I  should  take  yours,  she  has  suggested  it 
and  so  has  Ilex.  If  you  consent,  it  seems  best  that  it  should 
be  so." 

"  Sigmundskron  —  "  She  pronounced  the  syllables  slowly, 
almost  lovingly,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Greif  with  a  look 
he  did  not  understand. 

He  could  not  know  all  that  the  name  meant  to  her.  She  had 
married  the  last  man  who  had  borne  it  by  his  own  right,  the 
gallant  young  soldier,  who  was  to  restore  the  fallen  fortunes  of 
his  race,  in  the  only  way  in  which  they  had  ever  been  restored 
before,  by  the  faithful  service  of  his  country.  She  remembered 
how  firmly  she  had  believed  that  he  was  to  be  great  and  famous, 
how  confidently  she  had  hoped  to  bear  him  strong,  bright-eyed 
sons  worthy  of  him  and  like  him,  who  should  in  their  turn  do 
great  deeds,  of  which  he  should  live  to  be  proud.  The  dream 
had  vanished.  Brave  Sigmundskron  had  been  shot  down  like 
many  another,  a  mere  lieutenant,  with  all  his  hopes  and  grand 
visions  of  the  future,  and  his  wife  had  been  left  alone  with  a 
widow's  pension  and  her  little  child.  A  girl,  too  —  it  had 
seemed  as  though  nothing  were  to  be  spared  her.  If  she  had 
had  a  boy  to  bring  up,  another  Sigmundskron  to  grow  to 
better  fortunes  than  his  father,  and  perhaps  to  realise  all  his 
father  had  dreamed  of  for  himself,  it  would  have  been  easier 
then  —  but  a  girl !  The  name  was  ended,  never  to  be  spoken 
again,  as  it  had  been  so  many  times,  in  the  roll-calls  of  honour. 
She  had  brought  him  home  and  laid  him  beside  his  fathers,  and 
she  herself  had  broken  the  shield  upon  his  tomb  with  her  own 
hands,  for  he  was  the  last  of  his  race.  In  him  ended  the  line  of 
ancient  Sigmund,  as  it  had  begun,  in  the  strife  and  fury  of  battle. 
It  had  been  a  glorious  line,  take  it  all  in  all ;  though  its  last 
warrior  had  been  but  a  poor  lieutenant,  he  had  been  worthy  of 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  275 

his  fathers  and  had  died  the  worthy  death.  If  only  Hilda  could 
have  been  a  man  ! 

And  now,  after  so  many  years,  one  stood  before  her,  who 
craved  the  right  to  bear  that  spotless  name,  though  he  had  not 
one  drop  of  old  Sigmund's  blood  in  his  veins.  She  had  even 
offered  it  to  him  herself  —  she  wondered  how  she  could  have 
had  the  courage.  What  sort  of  a  man  was  this,  who  would 
call  himself  Sigmundskron,  like  her  dead  soldier,  and  be  Sig- 
mundskron  in  all  men's  eyes,  and  marry  Hilda  and  be  the  father 
of  many  Signiundskrous  to  come  ?  She  looked  at  Greif  long  and 
wondered  what  he  would  turn  out  to  be. 

That  he  was  honourable  and  true  hearted,  she  knew ;  that  he 
was  brave  she  had  reason  to  believe  ;  that  he  loved  her  daughter 
well,  she  knew  also.  But  it  was  hard.  Why  did  he  want  the 
name  of  her  beloved  dead?  Because  his  own  was  stained  —  not 
by  his  fault  —  but  it  was  darkened  and  made  a  reproach.  Ay, 
it  is  easy  for  a  man  with  a  bad  name  to  desire  a  good  one ;  it  is 
natural ;  if  he  be  innocent,  it  is  very  pardonable.  Greif  had  a 
right  to  ask  for  it,  but  would  she  give  it  ?  Would  she  suffer 
that  which  had  been  so  long  glorious  in  itself,  that  which  was 
made  sacred  by  the  shedding  of  good  blood  in  good  cause,  that 
which  recalled  all  she  had  once  worshipped  —  would  she  suffer 
that  to  be  made  a  mere  cloak  for  the  evil  deeds  of  Rieseneck 
and  Greifenstein,  murderers  and  suicides  ?  It  was  hard  to 
do  it. 

And  yet  she  was  willing,  nay,  even  glad,  that  this  man  should 
marry  her  only  child,  the  only  daughter  of  her  husband.  She 
loved  him  in  a  way,  for  he  was  to  be  her  son,  the  only  son 
she  could  ever  have.  Ah,  that  was  it.  Greif  was  to  be  her 
son.  She  gazed  into  his  face  and  wondered  whether,  if  she  had 
searched  the  world,  she  could  have  found  one  goodlier  and 
stronger  and  truer  to  be  a  match  for  her  own  child,  whether  if 
she  ever  dreamed  of  what  might  have  been,  she  saw  in  her 
fancy  a  son  more  worthy  than  this.  And,  after  all,  he  did  not 
ask  the  boon  for  his  own  advantage.  He  had  bravely  struggled 
to  give  up  Hilda  rather  than  let  her  risk  the  smallest  worldly 
disadvantage  or  reproach  through  him.  He  asked  for  this  for 
Hilda's  sake,  not  for  his  own,  and  would  it  not  be  a  thousand 
times  better  that  Hilda,  and  Hilda's  children,  should  still  be 
Sigmundskron  than  wear  a  name  black  with  ill-shed  blood? 
Since  she  was  to  have  a  son  given  her  would  she  not  rather 


276  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

have  him  Sigmundskron  than  Greifenstein  ?  Could  he  ever  be 
a  true  son  to  her  so  long  as  he  was  called  after  those  who  had 
treated  herself  coldly  and  heartlessly  during  so  many  years,  and 
who  themselves  had  come  to  such  an  evil  end? 

She  looked  at  him  once  more.  Then  she  put  out  her  hands 
and  took  his  and  drew  him  close  to  her  so  that  she  could  see 
into  his  eyes.  When  she  saw  what  was  in  them  she  was  glad. 

"Will  you  be  a  son  to  me,  Greif  von  Greifenstein?"  she 
asked  solemnly. 

"  I  will  indeed,  so  help  me  God,  and  you  shall  be  my  mother," 
he  answered. 

"  Then  you  shall  be  Sigmundskron,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
brave  —  be  as  brave  as  old  Sigmund.  You  are  true  —  be  as 
true  as  he.  You  are  faithful  —  be  faithful  to  death,  as  he  was, 
who  was  the  last  of  Sigmund's  sons." 

The  white-haired  lady  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  drawing  him 
still  nearer  to  her,  kissed  his  smooth  young  forehead,  with  the 
pale  lips  that  had  touched  no  man's  face  since  her  dead  husband 
had  gone  from  her  to  his  death. 

"  Go  and  tell  Hilda  that  you  will  be  Sigmundskron  to  her  in 
deed,  and  in  heart,  as  well  as  in  name,"  she  said. 

As  she  left  the  room,  erect  and  with  firm  step,  he  saw  the 
bright  tears  burst  from  her  eyes,  and  roll  down  her  pallid  cheeks, 
though  she  would  not  bend  her  head  nor  heed  them. 

For  many  minutes  he  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  his  hand 
resting  upon  the  edge  of  the  table,  his  look  fixed  upon  the  door, 
absently  and  seeing  nothing. 

"  That  is  what  it  is  to  have  a  spotless  name,"  he  said,  almost 
aloud. 

He  went  out  softly  as  though  from  a  hallowed  place,  and 
closed  the  door  noiselessly  behind  him.  His  small  anticipations 
of  what  that  scene  would  be  like,  full  of  many  words  and 
attempts  at  tactful  speech,  seemed  infinitely  pitiful  and  con 
temptible  now,  beside  the  dignity,  the  kindness,  the  noble  pride 
and  the  grand  simplicity  of  the  woman  who  had  given  him  her 
name.  He  walked  slowly,  and  his  head  was  bent  in  thought 
as  he  threaded  the  well-known  passages  and  stairways  to  the 
old  rampart  where  he  knew  that  Hilda  was  waiting  for  him. 

She  was  sitting  upon  one  of  the  stone  projections,  hatless  in 
the  April  sun,  her  beautiful  figure  thrown  into  bold  lines  and 


GRElFEtfSTElN.  277 

curves  as  she  looked  down  upon  the  road,  sitting,  but  half 
turned  upon  her  seat.  She  heard  the  crazy  door  of  the  turret 
creak  and  rattle,  and  she  moved  so  that  she  could  see  Greif . 

"  It  has  not  lasted  long,"  she  said,  with  a  smile.  "  Why  do 
you  look  so  grave  ?  "  she  asked  quickly  as  she  noticed  his  face. 
"  Has  anything  happened  ?  " 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Do  you  know  what  your  mother  told  me  to  say  to  you?  "  he 
asked. 

She  shook  her  head  expectantly,  and  her  expression  grew 
bright  again. 

"  She  told  me  to  tell  you  that  I  would  be  Sigmundskron  to 
you  in  deed,  and  in  heart,  as  well  as  in  name  —  can  I  say 
more  ?  " 

"  But  one  thing  more,"  she  answered,  as  her  arms  went  round 
him.  "  But  one  thing  more  —  that  you  will  be  Greif,  my  Greif, 
the  Greif  I  love,  always  and  always,  whether  in  my  name  or 
yours,  until  the  end !  " 

As  his  own  thoughts  had  dwindled  before  Frau  von  Sigmund- 
skron's  earnest  dignity,  so  that  in  turn  grew  dim  and  far  away 
in  the  presence  of  Hilda's  love.  All  had  been  right  in  their 
own  way,  but  Hilda's  speech  was  the  best,  and  there  was  the 
most  humanity  in  it,  after  all. 

A  long  time  they  sat  side  by  side  in  the  sunlight,  talking  of 
each  other  and  of  themselves  as  lovers  will,  and  must,  if  they 
would  talk  at  all.  As  they  were  about  to  go  down,  Hilda 
stopped,  just  at  the  entrance  of  the  turret,  and  swung  the 
broken  door  gently  on  its  creaking  hinges. 

"You  must  not  let  your  cousin  hate  me,  Greif,"  she  said,  as 
though  the  thought  troubled  the  cloudless  joy  of  the  future. 
"It  would  not  be  right.  We  must  all  be  one,  now  and  when 
we  two  are  married.  He  saved  your  life  by  his  care  —  why 
should  he  dislike  me?" 

"  He  does  not,  dearest  —  you  are  mistaken,"  protested  Greif, 
who  was  much  embarrassed  by  the  question.  Hilda  faced  him 
at  once,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  He  does,  and  you  must  see  it.  Why  does  he  never  come  here? 
Why  is  he  so  cold  when  we  go  to  Greifenstein  ?  I  do  not  care 
a  straw  for  his  like  or  dislike,  except  because  he  is  your  cousin, 
and  because  I  think  we  should  all  live  harmoniously  together. 


278  GREIFENSTEI3ST. 

The  strange  thing  is  that  he  would  give  his  life  for  you,  and  I 
am  sure  he  is  honest,  though  I  cannot  see  into  his  eyes  as  I  can 
into  yours.  What  is  the  reason  ?  You  must  know." 

"  I  do  not.  I  can  see  that  he  is  very  reserved  with  you  and 
does  not  like  to  come  here.  I  asked  him  only  yesterday  why 
he  always  stayed  behind." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  V  "  asked  Hilda  eagerly. 

"  Nothing  to  the  point.  He  said  he  could  not  be  of  any  use 
if  he  did  come  —  which,  after  all,  is  absolutely  true." 

"  You  must  find  out.  He  dislikes  me  now,  when  we  are 
married  it  will  be  worse,  a  year  hence  he  will  detest  me 
altogether  and  tell  you  so,  perhaps." 

"Do  you  think  he  would  tell  me?"  asked  Greif  with  a  quiet 
smile,  that  did  not  agree  with  the  sudden  glittering  of  his  eyes. 

"No,"  laughed  Hilda.  "That  is  an  exaggeration.  But  he 
will  make  us  both  feel  it." 

"  In  that  case  we  will  not  ask  him  to  stay  with  us,"  answered 
Greif,  half  carelessly,  half  in  anger  at  Rex's  imaginary  future 
rudeness. 

He  saw  that  Hilda  was  annoyed  by  his  cousin's  conduct,  for 
it  was  the  second  time  she  had  spoken  of  it  during  the  visit, 
and  he  determined  that  he  would  put  the  matter  very  plainly 
to  Rex  as  soon  as  he  reached  Greifenstein,  the  more  so  as  he 
himself  had  noticed  it  and  had  already  asked  Rex  for  an  ex 
planation. 

Hilda's  face  grew  grave.  She  knew  how  devoted  Rex  was  to 
Greif,  and  she  felt  as  though  her  future  husband  were  to  lose 
his  best  friend  for  a  meaningless  whim  of  the  latter,  in  which 
she  was  involved  against  her  will. 

"  That  must  never  be,"  she  answered.  "  Next  to  me,  no  one 
loves  you  as  Rex  does.  I  would  not  have  you  quarrel  for  all 
the  world  —  and  it  is  mere  jealousy,  Greif,  I  know  —  " 

"  Then  he  must  be  a  very  contemptible  character,"  said 
Greif  indignantly. 

"  Because  he  is  so  much  attached  to  you  that  it  pains  him  to 
see  his  place  taken  by  another,  even  by  woman?  No,  sweet 
heart.  That  is  not  contemptible.  But  you  must  change  it. 
Tell  him  to  be  reasonable  —  " 

"  Could  I  say  that  you  are  offended  with  him  ?  "  asked  Greif. 
"  Can  I  go  to  Rex  and  tell  him  that  he  must  not  only  be  civil 
but  must  be  a  friend  to  you  ?  " 


GREIFENSTEIN.  279 

"You  are  jesting,"  she  answered.  "But  it  is  just  what  I 
would  do  in  earnest  —  what  I  will  do,  if  you  will  let  rne.  He 
would  understand  that.  I  would  say  to  him,  Herr  Rex,  you  are 
Greif's  only  relation  besides  ourselves.  It  is  absolutely  necessary 
for  his  happiness  that  we  should  be  on  good  terms,  you  and  I. 
Is  it  my  fault?  He  would  answer  that  it  was  not,  for  he  is 
honest.  Then  it  is  yours,  I  would  say,  and  the  sooner  you  turn 
yourself  into  a  friend  of  mine,  the  better  it  will  be  for  Greif, 
who  is  the  only  person  you  care  for  in  the  world.  Is  not  that 
common  sense?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  ?  "  asked  Greif  rather  anxiously. 

"If  you  will  let  me,  I  will,"  answered  Hilda,  returning  to  her 
occupation  and  swinging  the  old  door  slowly  between  her  two 
hands. 

"  If  I  will  let  you !  "  repeated  Greif.  "  Do  you  think  I  would 
try  to  prevent  you  from  saying  what  you  please,  darling  —  " 

"  You  ought  to,  if  you  think  it  would  be  a  mistake  —  at 
least,  after  we  are  married." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  could,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh. 

"  No  one  else  could,"  said  Hilda,  looking  up  at  him  with 
flashing  eyes.  "  If  I  meant  to  do  a  thing,  I  would  do  it,  of 
course.  Did  I  not  say  that  I  would  not  let  you  go?" 

"  Indeed  you  did.     And  you  kept  your  word." 

"  And  I  love  you  —  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  all  I  know,  or  care  to  know." 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you  something  more.  Because  I  love  you, 
I  want  to  do  what  you  like,  and  not  what  I  like,  and  I  always 
will,  so  long  as  you  love  me." 

Greif  drew  her  to  him  and  held  her  close,  and  whispered  a 
tender  word  into  her  ear. 

"But  you  must  understand,"  she  said.  "It  is  not  because 
you  are  to  be  my  husband,  that  I  mean  to  submit  to  you.  I  do 
not  submit  at  all,  and  never  shall.  I  am  just  as  strong  as  you 
are,  and  you  could  not  make  me  yield  a  hair's-breadth.  But  I 
will  always  do  everything  you  wish  me  to  do,  because  I  love 
you,  and  because  you  love  me,  not  for  any  other  reason.  Do 
you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise,  my  darling  —  and  I  will  do 
the  same  —  " 

"  You  cannot  quite — you  cannot  feel  as  I  do,  Greif.  Perhaps, 
some  day  —  when  you  and  I  are  old,  Greif  —  then  you  will  love 


280  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

me  as  I  love  you  now,  but  then,  yon.  see,  I  shall  have  learnt  how 
to  love  you  more,  and  you  will  still  be  hindmost  in  love's  race 
—  for  women  are  made  to  love  and  men  to  fight,  in  this  world, 
and  though  I  could  fight  not  badly,  if  need  were,  for  you,  yet 
I  know  better  how  to  do  the  sweeter  thing,  than  you  can  ever 
know.  Do  you  not  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Since  you  would  have  me  —  " 

"  You  do  not  —  but  you  will,  some  day,"  she  answered,  shak 
ing  her  beautiful  head  a  little,  and  tapping  the  door  with  her 
fingers.  "And  now,  dear,"  she  added,  laying  her  hand  in  his 
and  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the  old  battlement,  "  and 
now,  shall  I  tell  Rex,  or  will  you?" 

"  I  will  tell  him,"  said  Greif  firmly. 

"  Then  promise  me  not  to  be  angry,  Greif.  I  could  do  it  so 
well — but  it  is  better  so.  Promise  me  that  you  will  say  it  in 
such  a  way  as  shall  make  you  feel  afterwards  that  you  have 
done  the  best  —  even  long  afterwards ;  in  such  a  way  as  to  show 
him  how  you  value  his  friendship.  He  saved  your  life,  by  his 
care  —  " 

"  And  you  called  me  back  from  death  with  your  eyes  —  " 

"  Do  not  think  of  my  eyes,  when  you  are  talking  to  him," 
interrupted  Hilda  gravely.  "  Think  of  all  he  has  done  for  you, 
and  of  what  such  a  noble  friendship  deserves  in  return.  Think 
that  he  is  a  lonely  man,  and  not  so  young  as  you,  and  that  he 
needs  a  little  affection  very  much.  Think  that  all  T  want  is 
that  we  may  be  able  to  live  happily  together,  you  and  T,  and  he, 
when  he  cares  to  be  with  us.  But  do  not  think  of  me  —  or  if 
you  do,  think  that  if  you  and  Rex  were  parted  I  should  not 
forgive  myself.  Do  I  not  owe  him  your  life,  as  you  do?  If 
you  had  died,  because  he  was  not  there  to  tend  you —  T  cannot 
speak  of  it  —  but  you  owe  him  much,  for  it  is  your  life,  and  T 
more,  for  I  owe  him  our  two  lives  together.  Will  you  tell  him 
that?" 

"T  will  try  —  he  will  not  understand  it  all." 

"  Then,  if  he  has  not  understood,  if  you  cannot  make  him  see 
it,  then  it  will  be  my  turn.  But  you  can,  Greif  dear,  T  know 
you  can.  And  it  is  not  a  small  matter  either,  though  it  may 
seem  so  now.  It  is  not  a  small  matter  to  part  with  such  a  man 
as  that,  nor  is  it  an  insignificant  evil,  that  I  should  have  his 
dislike  at  the  very  beginning,  before  we  are  married.  You 
must  do  your  best,  you  must  do  all  you  can,  and  you  will  sue- 


GREIFENSTEHST.  281 

ceed  —  and  by  and  by  we  will  work  together.  Greif  —  "  she 
stopped  suddenly  and  looked  at  him. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Greif,  do  you  think  I  have  any  other  reason  for  wanting  Rex 
to  like  me  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  a  vain  woman  ?  " 

Greif  stared  at  her  a  moment  and  then  laughed  aloud. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  "  she  asked,  quietly.  "  Perhaps  I  am 
right.  I  have  read  of  girls  who  were  so  vain  that  they  wanted 
every  man  they  saw  to  like  them  —  and  I  have  never  seen  any 
man  —  young,  I  mean,  but  you,  until  I  saw  Rex  —  and  so  I 
thought  —  perhaps  —  " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  stood  looking  at  him 
with  an  expression  of  serious  doubt  upon  her  lovely  face  that 
made  Greif  laugh  again. 

"  Because  if  that  were  it,"  she  said  gravely,  "  Rex  might  go, 
and  I  should  be  glad  of  it  —  " 

"  Hilda  !  How  can  you  have  such  ideas  !  "  cried  Greif  at  last. 
Her  innocence  was  so  astounding  that  he  could  not  find  words 
to  answer  her  at  once. 

"  There  might  be  just  a  possibility  —  " 

"  That  you,  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  are  not  satisfied  with  me 
alone,  but  want  to  make  a  conquest  of  Rex  besides !  Poor  Rex ! 
How  he  would  laugh  at  the  idea  —  Hilda,  you  must  not  think 
such  things ! " 

"Is  it  wrong?"  she  asked,  turning  her  clear  eyes  upon  him. 

"  Wrong  ?  No.  It  is  not  wrong  to  any  one  but  yourself,  and 
it  is  really  very  wrong  to  believe  that  you  could  be  capable  of  a 
contemptible,  silly  vanity  like  that." 

"You  do  not  think  I  should  be — what  do  they  call  it  —  a 
coquette  —  if  you  took  me  into  the  world  ?  " 

"  You  ?  Never ! "  And  Greif  laughed  again,  as  he  well 
might. 

In  a  woman  differently  brought  up  it  would  have  been  im 
possible  not  to  suppose  that  such  words  were  spoken  out  of 
sheer  affectation,  but  Greif  knew  too  well  how  Hilda  had  lived, 
to  suspect  such  a  thing.  Her  innocence  was  such  that  she  did 
not  understand  the  commonest  feelings  of  women  in  the  world, 
not  even  the  most  harmless. 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  mean  to  be  bad,  though  I 
believe  it  is  very  easy,  and  one  does  not  always  know  it,  when 
one  is,"  * 


282  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

"  I  should  think  one  would  know  it  oneself  sooner  than  any 
one  else,"  answered  Greif.  "  But  if  I  find  out  that  you  are  bad, 
Hilda,  I  promise  to  tell  you  so." 

"  Seriously  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  run  any  risk.  What  children  we  are,  Hilda !  And 
how  pleasant  it  is  to  be  children  together,  on  a  day  like  this,  in 
a  year  like  this,  with  such  a  creature  as  you,  sweetheart! " 

"  We  cannot  always  be  children,"  she  answered.  "  Will  it  be 
very  different  then,  I  wonder?  Will  there  be  any  change, 
except  the  good  change  of  loving  more  than  now?" 

"  I  do  not  see  why  there  should  be.  Even  if  that  never  came, 
would  it  not  be  enough,  as  it  is?" 

"Love  must  grow,  Greif.  I  feel  that.  A  love  that  does  not 
grow  is  already  beginning  to  die." 

"  Who  told  you  so  many  things  of  love,  Hilda?" 

"  Who  told  me  ? "  she  repeated,  as  the  quick  fire  flashed  in 
her  eyes.  "Do  I  need  to  be  told,  to  know?  Ah,  Greif,  if  you 
felt  what  I  feel  —  here  —  "  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  side, 
"  you  would  understand  that  I  need  no  telling,  nor  ever  shall. 
You  are  there,  dear,  there  in  the  midst  of  my  heart,  more  really 
even  than  you  are  before  my  eyes." 

"You  are  more  eloquent  than  I,  sweetheart,"  said  Greif. 
"  You  leave  me  nothing  to  say,  except  always  to  repeat  what 
you  have  said." 

"If  I  said  little  —  "     She  stopped  and  laughed. 

"  It  is  not  words  only,  nor  the  tones  of  them  that  make 
things  true.  If  I  had  the  skill  I  could  say  better  what  would 
please  you  to  hear,  but  having  none,  I  make  your  speeches  my 
own,  to  be  enough  for  both  of  us." 

"  Do  you  never  feel  as  though  you  must  speak,  or  your  heart 
would  burst  ?  " 

"  No  —  I  wish  I  could,  for  then  the  words  would  come.  I 
think  that  the  more  I  feel  the  less  I  am  able  to  say." 

"  You  talked  very  badly  when  you  were  trying  to  persuade  me 
that  we  ought  not  to  marry,"  said  Hilda,  with  a  side  glance  at 
his  happy  face. 

"  And  you  talked  well  —  too  well  —  " 

"  Which  of  us  two  felt  the  more,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  What  I  felt  was  almost  too  much.  I  came  near  never  speak 
ing  again.  I  do  not  know  how  I  got  home  that  day." 

"And  I  —  do  you  know?     When  you  were  gone,  I  did  not 


GBEIFENSTEIN.  283 

shed  a  tear,  I  did  not  try  to  run  after  you,  though  I  thought  of 
it.  I  went  quietly  into  the  house  and  sat  down  and  told  my 
mother  what  I  had  said.  Was  it  heartless,  do  you  think?  Was 
it  because  I  felt  nothing  ?  It  is  true,  I  did  not  believe  you  were 
really  ill,  since  you  had  the  strength  to  go  away  on  foot." 

"  What  was  it  then  ? "  Greif  looked  wonderingly  into  her 
face. 

"  It  was  victory,  and  I  knew  it.  For  one  moment  I  was 
frightened,  and  then  I  saw  it  all.  I  saw  you  come  back,  as  you 
have  come  to-day,  to  say  what  you  have  said.  I  felt  as  though 
my  hand  were  still  on  your  shoulder,  as  though  you  could  not 
escape  me,  do  what  you  might.  I  never  doubted,  until  that  dread 
ful  day  when  Wastei  came  over  and  told  my  mother  that  you 
were  very  ill.  He  did  not  say  you  were  dying,  but  he  told  us 
that  your  carriage  was  on  the  way  to  fetch  us,  and  that  they  were 
sending  relays  of  hoi'ses  along  the  road  so  that  we  should  lose 
no  time —  and  she  would  have  left  me  behind.  But  I  knew  the 
truth.  I  knew  that  if  I  could  see  you,  you  were  saved ;  and 
then,  when  I  pushed  my  mother  aside  and  went  in,  it  seemed 
too  late.  If  I  could  die  at  all,  being  so  strong,  I  should  have 
died  in  that  moment,  when  your  head  fell  back  upon  my  arm 
and  your  eyes  closed  —  and  then,  a  minute  later,  they  told  me 
you  were  saved,  for  when  I  knew  you  were  still  alive  I  knew  you 
would  be  well  again  —  and  then  —  and  then  —  oh,  Greif !  " 

The  tears  that  pain  or  sorrow  could  not  have  wrung  from  her, 
broke  forth  abundantly  in  the  memory  of  that  overwhelming 
joy.  If  Hilda  had  not  been  Hilda,  the  only  woman  of  her  kind, 
Greif  would  have  kissed  the  tears  away  as  they  started  from  her 
eyes.  But  being  Hilda,  he  could  not.  It  was  over  in  a  minute, 
but  he  had  become  a  little  pale  and  his  arm  trembled  under  the 
light  pressure  of  hers.  She  brushed  the  drops  away,  and  saw 
his  altered  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  ?  "  she  asked.  "  It  is  only  happiness 
—  they  do  not  hurt." 

"  Sometimes  you  are  so  beautiful  that  I  do  not  dare  to  touch 
you,"  he  said  softly. 

She  turned  her  golden  head  quickly  with  a  bright  smile,  and 
a  crystal  drop  that  lingered  on  her  lashes  fell  upon  her  soft  cheek. 
It  was  as  though  his  words  had  been  the  breath  of  the  south 
wind  gently  shaking  the  last  drop  of  a  summer  shower  from  the 
petals  of  a  perfect  rose. 


284  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  How  shall  I  not  be  vain,  if  you  say  such  things !  "  she 
exclaimed. 

"  How  can  I  see  you  so,  and  not  say  them? "  he  asked. 

"  It  is  time  to  go  down,"  she  said.  "  We  meant  to  go,  when  I 
began  to  speak  of  Rex,  ever  so  long  ago." 

"  I  had  forgotten  Rex." 

"  Do  not  forget  him.     He  is  a  good  friend." 

So  at  last  they  descended  the  broken  stair  and  disappeared 
into  the  house.  When  Greif  was  ready  to  go,  and  the  carriage 
was  before  the  door,  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  led  him  away 
from  Hilda. 

"  Let  it  be  done  soon,"  she  said,  earnestly. 

"  The  marriage  ?  "  asked  Greif  in  surprise. 

«  No  —  the  name.  Let  it  be  changed  as  soon  as  the  lawyers 
can  do  it." 

"I  will  see  to  it  at  once,"  he  answered,  wondering  at  her 
haste. 

She  saw  the  look  of  inquiry  in  his  eyes  and  paused  a  moment, 
holding  his  hand  in  hers. 

"  I  have  lived  long  without  a  son  —  give  me  one  —  and  Sig 
mundskron  has  had  no  lord  these  eighteen  years." 

"I  will  not  lose  a  day,"  he  said.  "  And  once  more  —  I  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart." 

He  kissed  her  thin  hand,  and  turned  away  to  bid  farewell  to 
Hilda.  A  moment  later  the  light  carriage  was  whirling  out 
through  the  castle  gate.  The  two  ladies  watched  until  it  was 
out  of  sight. 

"  God  bless  you,"  said  the  mother  solemnly,  as  though  she  were 
speaking  to  Greif.  "  God  bless  you  and  bring  you  back  to  be  a 
son  to  me  —  no  more  Greifenstein,  but  Sigmundskron,  you,  and 
yours  for  ever,  and  ever  !  God  bless  you !  " 

Hilda  looked  at  her  mother  intently.  She  did  not  know  all 
that  the  words  meant  to  the  quiet,  white-haired  woman  beside 
her.  She  could  not  know  how  often  in  those  long  years  Therese 
von  Sigmundskron  had  wished  that,  instead  of  a  daughter,  a  son 
had  been  given  to  her,  to  bear  the  name  and  wear  the  sword  of 
her  dead  husband ;  she  could  not  know  of  all  the  tears  her 
mother  had  shed  in  bitter  self-reproach  at  her  own  ingratitude 
in  thinking  such  a  thought. 

"You  do  not  understand,  child,"  she  said,  taking  her  daughter 
by  the  hand.  "  Come  with  me." 


GREIFENSTEIN.  285 

She  led  her  to  her  own  room.  Upon  a  piece  of  black  stuff  on 
the  wall,  were  hung  two  swords,  one  a  sabre,  and  one  a  rapier 
in  a  three-cornered  case,  and  above  them  a  leathern  helmet  with 
a  gilded  spike.  Beneath  these  weapons  was  a  heavy  old  carved 
chest.  With  Hilda's  help  she  lifted  the  lid.  Within  were  uni 
forms  and  military  trappings  of  all  sorts,  and  in  one  corner, 
folded  together,  a  roll  of  faded  bunting.  This  she  took  out  and 
unwrapped,  and  spread  it  wide  upon  the  floor. 

It  was  torn  and  patched  and  faded,  for  it  was  the  old  flag 
that  used  to  wave  upon  the  dilapidated  keep  of  the  castle.  On 
an  azure  field  three  golden  crowns  were  set  corner  wise,  two 
above  and  one  below.  Hilda  looked  at  the  banner  curiously, 
and  then  at  her  mother. 

"  We  must  make  a  new  one,  Hilda,"  she  said.  "  And  Wastei 
must  pick  out  a  tall,  straight  sapling  from  the  forest  —  for 
Sigmundskron  has  a  lord  again,  and  the  old  flag  must  float  on 
the  wind  when  he  comes  to  his  home." 


286  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 

REX  had  not  been  wrong  when  he  predicted  that  Hilda  and 
Greif  would  be  married  in  the  summer.  It  had  certainly  been 
the  intention  of  the  latter  to  allow  the  whole  year  to  pass  after 
the  winter's  tragedy,  before  tasting  the  happiness  that  was 
before  him,  but  even  if  his  own  courage  had  been  equal  to  the 
trial  of  waiting,  other  circumstances  would  have  determined 
him  to  hasten  the  day.  Perhaps  the  most  impatient  of  all  was 
Frau  von  Sigmundskron  herself,  and  indeed  the  oldest  are  often 
those  most  anxious  to  precipitate  events,  as  though  they  feared 
lest  death  should  overtake  them  before  everything  is  accom 
plished.  The  good  baroness  wras  by  no  means  old,  but  she  was 
in  haste  to  see  the  fulfilment  of  her  hopes.  Hilda,  who  was 
already  supremely  happy,  would  have  waited,  if  Greif  had 
desired  it,  and  she  at  first  approved  of  his  intention  to  let  the 
proper  time  of  mourning  elapse.  But  Greif  yielded  without 
much  opposition  to  the  wishes  of  Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  who, 
strange  to  say,  was  seconded  by  Rex. 

"  It  seems  very  wrong  to  do  it,"  said  Greif  to  the  latter,  as 
they  sat  one  evening  together  in  the  arbour  of  the  garden, 
listening  with  pleasure  to  the  sound  of  the  cool  torrent  tum 
bling  along  far  below.  It  was  late  in  July. 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong  in  that  which  makes  all  happy," 
answered  Rex,  taking  his  cigar  from  his  mouth. 

"  But  there  is  a  decency  which  is  apart  from  right  and  wrong," 
objected  Greif,  for  the  hundredth  time. 

"  Then  keep  it  apart.  Besides,  decency  can  be  divided  under 
two  kinds.  The  one  does  not  concern  us,  for  it  is  pui'ely  esthetic. 
As  for  the  other  sort,  it  means  that  tactful  respect  for  tolerably 
sensible  traditions,  by  which  society  expresses  its  wish  to  con 
tinue  to  exist  in  social  bonds.  It  is  founded  on  the  necessity 
which  exists,  where  many  live  together,  of  not  hurting  the 
feelings  of  our  neighbours.  If  you  can  show  me  that  you  are 
offending  any  one's  sensibilities  by  getting  married  now  instead 


GREIFENSTEIN.  287 

of  five  or  six  months  hence,  I  will  give  up  the  contest  and  go  to 
bed,  for  it  is  late.  If  you  cannot,  and  if  you  persist,  I  am  ready 
to  argue  with  you  all  night." 

And  so  Greif  suffered  himself  to  be  persuaded,  and  the  wed 
ding-day  was  fixed  in  the  end  of  August,  and  everything  was 
got  ready. 

Long  before  this,  Rex  and  Greif  had  done  all  that  there  was 
to  be  done  in  regard  to  the  succession,  and  had  sorted  arid 
arranged  such  papers  as  had  to  be  examined.  But  though 
Greif  had  willingly  left  the  bulk  of  the  work  to  his  cousin,  and 
though  the  latter  had  searched  everything  far  more  thoroughly 
than  Greif  guessed,  not  a  scrap  of  writing  had  been  discovered 
which  could  be  taken  for  a  message  from  the  dead  man  to  his 
son.  Rex  wondered  what  had  become  of  the  letter,  until  at  last 
he  began  to  suspect  that  it  had  never  been  written.  At  first 
this  appeared  to  be  a  wild  and  inexplicable  supposition,  but  the 
more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  certain  it  grew,  in  his  opinion, 
that  Greifenstein  had  died  without  leaving  a  word  of  farewell 
to  Greif.  The  letter  Rex  himself  had  received  afforded  a  key 
to  the  situation.  Old  Greifenstein's  character  had  been  stern, 
resolute,  moral,  unbending.  Rex  felt  certain  that  if  he  had 
written  to  Greif  at  all,  the  letter  would  have  contained  a  solemn 
injunction,  commanding  him  to  take  the  consequences  of  his 
mother's  crimes,  to  give  over  the  whole  fortune  and  estate  to 
the  Sigrnundskrons,  as  lawful  heirs  thereto,  and,  after  confess 
ing  frankly  that  he  was  nameless  and  penniless,  to  bear  his 
poverty  and  shame  like  a  brave  man,  because  they  were  inevita 
ble  in  the  course  of  divine  justice.  He  would  probably  have 
recommended  him  to  enlist  as  a  private  soldier,  and  trust  to  his 
education  and  to  his  own  strength  of  determination  for  advance 
ment. 

The  stiff-necked  old  gentleman  would  in  all  human  proba 
bility  have  expressed  himself  in  this  manner,  and  Rex  knew 
Greif  well  enough  to  know  the  son  would  have  fulfilled  the 
father's  injunctions  and  carried  out  his  orders  to  the  letter,  no 
matter  at  what  cost. 

On  the  other  hand  it  was  possible  that  the  grim  nobleman 
might  have  relented  at  the  last  minute.  He  might  even  have 
torn  up  the  letter  after  writing  it,  and  burned  the  shreds  in  the 
library  fire.  If  he  did  not  write  at  all,  it.  was  clear  that  matters 
were  likely  to  remain  in  their  existing  condition  so  far  as  Greif 


288  GHEIFENSTEIN. 

was  concerned.  He  could  not  foresee  that  the  circumstances  of 
his  death  would  make  Greif  go  to  such  lengths  as  to  break  off 
the  marriage.  He  wTould  have  guessed  with  a  show  of  proba 
bility  that  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  would  not  refuse  Greif  and 
his  fortune  for  her  daughter,  on  account  of  the  evil  associations 
created  in  the  name  of  Greifenstein  by  the  triple  tragedy.  He 
would  have  said  to  himself  that  he  was  not  obliged  to  speak, 
since  the  money,  the  only  thing  which  could  be  contested 
would,  after  all,  go  to  the  Sigmundskrons ;  and  in  that  case  he 
would  have  considered  it  justifiable  to  take  his  secret  with  him 
to  the  grave. 

There  was  only  one  objection  to  this  attractive  theory,  and 
that  lay  in  the  letter  Rex  himself  had  received.  If  Greifenstein 
had  determined  that  his  own  son  was  never  to  have  any  key  to 
the  mystery,  he  would  never  have  allowed  his  brother  to  write 
down  the  details  for  Rex,  even  with  an  injunction  to  secrecy. 
And  he  had  been  a  man  capable,  especially  at  such  a  time,  of 
enforcing  his  will  upon  Rieseneck.  Unfortunately  it  was  im 
possible  to  know  which  of  the  two  men  had  died  first,  and 
here  a  third  possibility  presented  itself  which  Rex  could  not 
afford  to  ignore,  though  it  contained  a  considerable  element  of 
improbability.  It  was  conceivable  that  Greifenstein  should 
have  been  the  first  to  die.  In  that  case  Rieseneck.  who  must 
have  felt  that  he  had  ruined  Greif  by  his  revelations,  might  have 
burned  his  brother's  letter,  before  pulling  the  trigger.  It  would 
have  seemed  more  natural  in  that  case  that  he  should  have  also 
destroyed  his  own.  but  it  might  be  that  he  had  warned  Rex  for 
a  good  reason.  Without  such  a  warning,  and  if  he  had  been  a 
less  devoted  friend  of  Greif's,  Rex  might  perhaps  have  insti 
tuted  inquiries  into  his  father's  death  which  would  have  caused 
trouble,  and  which  might  even,  by  some  wholly  unforeseen  acci 
dent,  have  revealed  the  whole  truth  to  Greif  himself.  Xo  one 
could  tell  what  witnesses  were  still  alive  to  swear  to  the  identity 
of  her  who  had  been  the  wife  of  both.  There  must  necessarily 
have  been  foul  play  in  procuring  the  false  papers  upon  which 
she  had  contracted  her  second  marriage,  and  she  assuredly 
could  not  have  forged  them  alone.  It  was  highly  probable  that 
some  former  associate  of  hers  in  the  revolutionary  times  had 
remained  unnoticed  in  a  government  office  after  the  troubles 
were  over,  and  had  helped  her  to  free  herself  from  Rieseneck, 
who  had  been  the  instrument  of  the  revolutionary  powers,  by 


GREIFENSTEIN.  289 

procuring  for  her  a  set  of  false  papers  accurate  enough  to  defy 
detection.  Such  things  might  well  have  happened  at  such  an 
unquiet  season.  It  would  have  sufficed  that  such  a  person 
should  communicate  what  he  knew,  cleverly  shielding  himself 
at  the  same  time,  in  order  to  reveal  the  whole  story ;  and  if  no 
one  had  been  warned  of  the  danger,  while  Rex  himself  was 
using  all  the  power  of  the  law  to  account  for  his  father's  death, 
the  result  might  have  been  fatal  to  Greif. 

Nevertheless,  Rex  clung  to  the  theory  that  Greifenstein  had 
never  written  at  all,  and  he  met  such  difficulties  as  the  theory 
presented,  by  supposing  that  he  had  not  been  aware  that  Riese- 
neck  was  writing  to  Rex.  In  any  case,  nothing  had  been  found 
after  the  most  exhaustive  search,  and  Rex  was  beginning  to 
believe,  willingly  enough,  that  nothing  would  ever  be  discovered. 
To  avoid  all  risks,  however,  he  did  his  utmost  to  hasten  the 
marriage,  feeling  that  after  that  event  there  would  be  less  to  fear 
from  a  disclosure  of  the  truth. 

Meanwhile  Greif  had  obeyed  the  wishes  of  Frau  von  Sigmund- 
skron  and  had  taken  immediate  steps  to  change  his  name.  In 
Germany  the  matter  is  an  easy  one,  as  it  is  managed  chiefly 
through  the  Heralds'  Office.  Nothing  is  required  beyond  the 
formal  and  legal  consent  of  all  persons  bearing  the  name  which 
the  petitioner  desires  to  assume.  When  this  is  given,  the  neces 
sary  formalities  are  easily  fulfilled,  and  a  patent  is  placed  in  the 
hands  of  the  person  who  has  applied.  After  that,  it  is  no  longer 
in  the  power  of  the  family  who  have  given  their  consent  to  with 
draw  the  name,  under  any  circumstances  whatsoever.  In  Greif's 
case,  everything  was  done  very  easily.  The  Heralds'  Office  was 
well  aware  that  the  male  line  of  the  Sigmundskrons  was  extinct, 
and  that  the  family  was  only  represented  by  Hilda  and  her 
mother,  the  necessary  documents  were  forwarded,  signed  and 
attested  by  the  two  ladies  in  the  presence  of  the  proper  persons, 
and  returned.  A  month  later  Greif  received  his  patent,  sealed 
and  signed  by  the  sovereign,  setting  forth  that  he,  Greif  von 
Greifenstein,  only  son  of  Hugo,  deceased,  was  authorised  and 
entitled  to  be  called  henceforth  Greif  von  Greifenstein  and  Sig- 
mundskron,  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  use  either  or  both  names 
and  to  bear  arms,  three  crowns  proper,  or,  in  field  azure,  either 
quartered  with  those  of  Greifenstein  or  separately,  as  good 
should  seem  in  his  own  eyes. 

And  at  mid-day  on  a  certain  day  in  June,  the  wood-cutters  in 


290  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

the  forest  had  looked  towards  the  towers  of  Sigmundskron  as 
they  sat  in  the  shade  to  eat  their  noon-tide  meal,  and  they  had 
seen  a  great  standard  rising  slowly  to  the  peak  of  a  lofty  staff, 
and  catching  the  breeze  and  floating  out  bravely,  displaying  three 
golden  crowns  upon  its  azure  breadth. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  one,  a  young  fellow  of  twenty  years. 

"  It  is  the  flag  of  the  Sigmundskrons,"  answered  a  grey-haired, 
beetle-browed  man,  pausing  with  a  mouthful  of  cheese  stuck  on 
the  end  of  his  murderous  knife.  "  I  have  not  seen  that  these 
twenty  years,  since  the  poor  baron  was  killed  in  the  war.  There 
must  be  a  new  lord  in  Sigmundskron.  We  will  ask  to-night  in 
the  village." 

And  as  they  talked,  the  banner,  hoisted  by  Wastei's  wiry 
arms,  reached  the  very  top  of  the  staff,  and  remained  there,  wav 
ing  majestically,  where  many  a  one  like  it  had  waved  during 
eight  hundred  years  and  more.  At  that  moment  Greif,  in  his 
carriage,  was  coming  up  the  last  ascent.  He  saw  the  lordly 
standard,  changed  colour  a  little,  and  then  rose  in  the  light  vehi 
cle  and  uncovered  his  head.  He  felt  as  though  all  the  dead 
Sigraundskrons  who  lay  side  by  side  in  the  castle  chapel  had 
risen  from  their  tombs  to  greet  the  new  possessor  of  their  name. 
He  could  not  do  less  than  rise  himself,  and  salute  their  flag, 
though  it  was  now  to  be  his  own.  His  young  heart,  full  of 
knightly  traditions  and  aspirations,  felt  something  which  a  man 
of  a  younger  race  could  not  feel.  It  represented  much  to  him, 
which  is  lost  in  the  glare  of  modern  life.  It  was  easy  for  him 
to  fancy  the  old  Sigmundskrons  in  their  gleaming  mail,  high  on 
their  armoured  horses,  riding  out  in  a  close  squadron  from  their 
castle  gate  with  their  standard  in  their  midst,  some  to  die  in 
defending  it,  and  some  of  them  to  bear  home  its  tattered  glories 
in  victory.  It  was  an  easy  matter  for  him  to  identify  himself 
with  them  and  to  feel  that  henceforth  he  also  had  a  part  in  their 
history.  And  there  was  more,  too,  in  the  sight  of  the  gleaming 
colours  and  dancing  waves  of  the  tall  banner.  It  was  to  him 
the  signal  of  a  new  life's  starting-point,  the  emblem  of  a  new 
name.  Yesterday  he  had  been  burdened  with  the  remembrance 
of  blood  shed  in  evil  wise,  to-day  he  began  his  existence  with  a 
fair  scroll  before  him  on  which  no  shameful  tiling  was  written. 
As  he  stood  bareheaded  in  his  carriage,  he  was  as  it  were  salut 
ing  this  new  life  before  him,  as  well  as  doing  homage  to  the 
memory  of  the  dead  Sigmundskrons. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  291 

So  Greif  was  no  longer  Greifenstein  now,  and  he  informed 
the  few  persons  whom  he  wished  should  know  the  fact.  And 
the  time  passed  quickly  on  to  the  wedding-day.  In  the  mean 
while,  between  April  and  August,  Rex  and  Hilda  met  more 
often  than  before,  and  to  all  appearances  they  met  on  the  best 
of  terms,  to  the  no  small  satisfaction  of  Greif  himself. 

"  Rex,"  he  had  said  one  day,  "  Hilda  is  to  be  my  wife,  and  it 
is  necessary  that  you  should  like  her.  You  cannot  have  any 
good  reason  to  the  contrary,  and  yet  you  act  as  though  she  were 
positively  repulsive  to  you." 

Thereupon  Rex's  stony  eyes  had  expressed  something  as  nearly 
like  astonishment  as  they  were  capable  of  showing,  for  he  was 
surprised  at  being  found  out,  almost  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
and  he  perceived  that  Greif  had  not  found  him  out  alone. 

"I  am  sorry  that  she  should  think  me  capable  of  disliking 
her,"  Rex  answered.  "  My  position,  indeed,  is  so  different  from 
what  you  both  suppose  it  to  be,  that  I  would  make  any  sacrifice 
rather  than  see  this  marriage  broken  off." 

Greif  looked  at  him  a  moment,  not  quite  understanding,  for 
it  was  impossible  that  he  should  appreciate  all  that  Rex  meant 
by  the  words.  He  was  pleased,  nevertheless. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  and  tell  that  to  Hilda,"  he  said  in 
answer. 

"  I  will,"  said  Rex,  and  he  did  so  on  the  first  occasion  that 
offered. 

He  and  Greif  went  over  to  Sigmundskron  together.  Indeed, 
Rex  went  for  the  express  purpose  of  making  his  speech  to  Hilda, 
and  Greif  occupied  the  attention  of  the  baroness  for  a  while  in 
order  that  the  two  might  talk  undisturbed. 

"  So  you  have  come  at  last,"  said  Hilda.  "  It  is  long  since  we 
have  seen  you." 

"  Yes,  and  I  have  come  for  an  especial  purpose,"  answered 
Rex.  "  It  appears  that,  in  the  inscrutable  ways  of  fate,  I  have 
passed  for  an  ill-mannered  barbarian  in  your  eyes,  and  so  I  have 
come  to  show  myself  and  to  tell  you  what  I  think  on  certain 
points." 

"You  talk  very  mysteriously,"  said  Hilda. 

"  The  prologue  of  a  tale  should  always  be  mysterious.  It  is 
only  the  epilogue  that  must  needs  be  clear.  The  story  may  be 
between  the  two.  The  matter  of  all  three  is  very  simple,  be 
cause  it  concerns  you  and  me.  To  be  plain,  Fraulein,  I  have 


292  GREIFENSTEIN. 

come  to  justify  myself  in  your  eyes,  to  make  an  apology,  a 
declaration  and  a  treaty,  all  at  once." 

"  A  treaty,  at  least,  must  have  two  sides,"  observed  Hilda,  for 
she  knew  now  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

"  So  does  an  apology,"  answered  Rex  with  a  laugh.  "  To  be 
brief,  I  apologise  to  you  for  having  ever  so  acted  as  to  make  you 
imagine  that  I  was  ill  disposed  towards  you ;  I  hereby  declare 
that,  far  from  being  an  enemy  of  yours,  I  would  make  any  per 
sonal  sacrifice  rather  than  see  your  marriage  hindered ;  and  I 
propose  that  we  agree  henceforth  not  to  imagine  any  more  such 
things." 

Hilda  was  satisfied,  for  she  saw  that  Greif  had  put  the  matter 
plainly.  She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  What  is  your  first  name,  Herr  Rex? "  she  asked. 

"  Horst,"  he  answered,  in  some  surprise. 

"  Very  well.  I  agree  to  all  you  say.  We  will  be  good  friends, 
and  you  shall  be  Cousin  Horst  to  me,  and  I  will  be  Cousin  Hilda 
to  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Rex. 

He  wondered  why  he  had  ever  disliked  her,  and  he  even  asked 
himself  whether  the  antipathy  he  had  felt  had  been  real  or 
imaginary.  From  that  time,  however,  his  manner  changed  and 
Greif  had  no  further  cause  of  complant. 

The  weeks  sped  on  quickly,  and  the  wedding-day  came  at 
last.  Everything  was  done  very  quietly  indeed,  as  was  natural 
and  right,  considering  that  the  year  of  mourning  had  not  yet 
expired.  Only  when  all  was  over,  Greif  made  a  great  feast  for 
all  the  men  of  the  Greifenstein  estates,  and  another  in  the  court 
of  Sigmundskron  for  the  people  of  the  tiny  village.  And  it  was 
to  Sigmundskron  that  Hilda  and  Greif  went  first,  while  Rex  and 
the  baroness  remained  together  at  Gi'eifenstein.  There  was  as 
yet  no  outward  change  in  Hilda's  home,  though  a  few  rooms 
had  been  furnished  for  the  newly-married  pair.  But  the  old 
sitting-room  was  left  as  it  was  for  the  present,  and  there  Greif 
and  Hilda  dined  together  on  the  first  evening,  while  the 
peasants  were  feasting  beneath  the  window,  in  the  August 
moonlight. 

Many  a  long  year  had  passed  in  melancholy  silence  since 
such  merriment  had  been  heard  within  those  grey  walls,  and 
the  people  felt  instinctively  that  a  new  era  had  begun  for  them, 


GREIFENSTEIN.  293 

that  there  would  be  life  in  the  old  place  again,  and  that  the 
young  lord  would  build  up  Signmndskron  to  be  what  it  had 
been  before.  Though  not  a  foot  of  land  remained  to  the  name 
outside  the  ramparts,  the  feudal  tradition  had  not  disappeared. 
Old  men  were  alive  whose  fathers  had  told  them  of  the  good 
old  Sigmundskrons,  how  they  had  been  brave  in  war  and  kind 
in  peace,  and  generous  till  all  was  gone,  and  the  voices  of  these 
drowned  the  ill-natured  remarks  of  the  few  who  said  that  the  bar 
oness  was  a  miser  and  had  hoarded  her  gold  these  twenty  years 
in  the  deep  vault  under  the  haunted  north-west  tower,  upon  the 
brink  of  the  precipice.  Moreover,  as  is  the  nature  of  peasants, 
the  sight  of  the  feast  warmed  their  hearts  towards  those  who 
gave  it,  even  before  the  great  joints  of  meat  were  cut,  or  the 
first  cask  of  beer  broached.  They  had  never  seen  such  a  ban 
quet  before.  The  long  tables  went  all  the  way  round  the  great 
courtyard,  and  not  only  had  each  table  a  fair  white  cloth,  but 
there  was  also  a  fork  at  every  place,  and  a  stone  drinking-jug. 
And  in  the  midst  of  the  open  space  stood  a  row  of  jolly-looking 
barrels  and  casks,  there  was  beer  and  wine,  white  Schlossberger 
and  red  Affenthaler,  but  the  national  cherry  spirits  were  con 
spicuous  by  their  absence,  for  Greif  knew  the  fierce  Black  For 
esters  well.  Their  iron  heads  could  stand  unlimited  draughts 
of  any  drink  except  alcohol,  as  the  event  proved,  for  though  they 
drank  deep,  and  were  merry  to  their  hearts'  content,  they  filed 
through  the  gate  soberly  enough  before  the  clock  struck  mid 
night.  But  before  that  there  was  speech-making,  and  singing, 
and  dancing  of  reels  under  the  moonlight  that  mingled  softly 
with  the  rays  of  countless  paper  lanterns.  The  latter  were 
marvellous  in  the  eyes  of  the  foresters,  though  some  of  those 
who  had  served  in  the  army  said  they  had  seen  the  like  in 
Stuttgardt,  on  the  King's  birthday,  when  the  Thiergarten  was 
illuminated. 

Meanwhile  Greif  and  Hilda  sat  together  by  the  open  window 
high  above  the  court  and  looked  down  upon  the  merry-making 
peasants,  or  talked  together.  All  at  once  a  tremendous  voice 
thundered  up  from  below,  imposing  silence  on  the  assembly. 
It  was  so  loud  and  deep  and  sonorous  that  Greif  turned  his 
head  quickly  to  see  if  possible,  by  the  uncertain  light,  the  indi 
vidual  who  was  capable  of  making  such  an  enormous  noise. 

"It  is  the  mayor  of  Sigmundsdorf,"  said  Hilda,  laughing. 


294  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  He  has  the  loudest  voice  in  the  world.  The  people  say  that 
when  he  shouts  at  Berneck,  the  fishermen  can  hear  him  at 
Haigerloch  in  Hohenzollern." 

"  1  should  think  they  might,"  answered  Greif. 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,"  roared  the  mayor  from  below,  as  he 
addressed  the  rustics,  "  it  is  our  duty  to  thank  the  good  givers, 
and  to  drink  to  their  never-to-be-clouded  conjugal  happiness. 
From  where  I  stand,  gentlemen,  I  can  see  the  golden  moonlight 
shining  upon  the  silvery  hair  —  " 

The  mayor  interrupted  himself  with  a  ponderous  cough. 

"  The  silvery  moonlight  shines  upon  the  golden  hair  of  the 
high  and  well-born  Fraulein  Hilda  —  I  would  say,  of  the  high 
and  well-born  Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  junior  —  " 

Greif,  listening  above,  drew  in  his  head  to  suppress  a  convul 
sion  of  laughter,  but  the  crowd  applauded  the  figure  of  speech, 
and  the  mayor  bellowed  on. 

"  —  and  also  upon  that  of  her  high  and  well-born  consort  and 
husband,  the  lord  of  Sigmundskron." 

The  name  burst  from  his  lips  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  and 
Greif  grew  grave,  for  it  meant  something  to  him. 

"  And  though  I  could  say  much  more,"  continued  the  mayor, 
"I  will  not,  for  silence  is  gold,  as  the  burgomaster  of  Kalw 
says.  And  so,  gentlemen,  we  wish  them  happiness,  a  hundred 
years  of  life,  and  a  son  as  handsome  as  themselves  for  every 
tower  there  is  on  Sigmundskron.  Sigmundskron  hoch  !  " 

The  mayor  had  seemed  to  be  exerting  his  full  powers  during 
the  whole  speech,  but  an  unparalleled  experience  in  making 
noise  had  taught  him  the  art  of  reserving  a  final  explosion  in 
the  depths  of  his  huge  chest,  which  he  knew  could  never  fail 
to  thrill  his  audience  with  wonder  and  delight.  His  last  cheer 
broke  out  like  the  salute  of  a  broadside  of  cannon,  striking  the 
old  walls  like  a  battering-ram,  till  the  panes  rattled,  echoing  up 
to  tower  and  turret,  and  then  reverberating  and  rolling  away 
among  the  distant  trees,  as  though  it  were  in  haste  to  fulfil  its 
mission  and  tell  the  whole  wide  forest  that  Sigmundskron  had  a 
lord  again,  and  that  Hilda  was  married  to  her  true  love  at  last. 

"  Sigmundskron  hoch  !  "  yelled  the  peasants  in  a  wild  attempt 
to  rival  their  leader,  which  not  even  their  numbers  could  help 
them  to  do. 

Then  Greif  took  a  tall  glass  from  the  table  and  gave  it  to 
Hilda,  and  took  another  for  himself,  and  the  two  stood  up  in 


GREIFENSTEIN.  295 

the  opening  of  the  Gothic  window,  the  moonlight  falling  upon 
their  happy  faces  and  upon  the  slender  goblets  in  their  hands. 
Another  shout  went  up  from  below,  and  then  all  was  still. 

"  It  is  we  who  have  to  thank  you,"  said  Greif,  in  clear,  ring 
ing  tones.  "It  is  we  who  come  to  ask  your  help  to  make  Sig- 
mundskron  what  it  was  in  the  old  days.  May  you  all  live  to 
sup  with  us  each  year  as  to-night,  for  another  fifty  years !  We 
thank  you  for  your  good  wishes,  and  we  drink  to  you  all  —  to 
our  good  friend  the  mayor  of  Sigmundsdorf  and  to  all  the  rest. 
Hoch,  Sigmundsdorf !  Hoch,  the  brave  foresters !  Hoch,  the 
Black  Forest  we  all  love !  Hoch,  the  dear  Swabian  land !  " 

Hilda's  silver  voice  rang  high  in  the  last  cheer,  and  then  the 
two  touched  their  glasses  with  their  lips,  while  all  the  people 
shouted  with  joy  below  and  the  mayor's  earth-shaking  roars  of 
delight  made  the  great  owls  in  the  tower  shrink  into  their  holes 
and  blink  with  wonder. 

It  was  a  glorious  night,  and  for  many  a  year  the  people  of 
Sigmundsdorf  will  remember  the  look  that  was  on  those  two 
beautiful  young  faces  that  looked  down  upon  them  from  the 
high,  arched  window,  and  all  agreed  that  the  mayor  of  Sigmunds 
dorf  had  never  made  such  a  noble  speech  as  on  that  occasion, 
or  shown  the  superiority  of  his  voice  over  all  other  voices  with 
such  brilliant  success. 

So  Hilda  and  Greif  were  married,  and  none  but  Rex  knew 
what  a  mortal  danger  had  hung  over  their  happiness  until  that 
day.  When  all  was  done  and  ended,  Rex  drew  a  long  breath 
and  sat  down  alone  to  think  over  the  peril  from  which  Greif 
had  escaped.  By  this  time  he  was  fully  persuaded  that  the 
latter  would  never  be  disturbed  by  the  discovery  of  a  letter  left 
by  his  father,  and  he  had  entirely  adopted  the  theory  that  no 
such  letter  had  ever  existed.  It  was  a  comforting  belief,  and 
seemed  reasonable  enough,  so  that  he  classified  it  amongst  his 
convictions  and  tormented  himself  no  more.  He  could  not 
help  reflecting,  however,  upon  the  complications  that  might 
arise  if  such  a  document  should  after  all  find  its  way  into 
Greif's  hands,  and  as  he  thought  over  the  various  turns  affairs 
might  take  he  trembled  at  the  responsibility  he  had  assumed. 
There  were  delicate  points  of  law  involved,  concerning  which 
he  himself  was  uncertain. 

In  the  first  place,  as  Greifenstein,  Greif  was  not  married  at 
all.  His  birth  was  illegitimate,  and  if  he  had  been  married 


296  GREIFENSTEIN. 

under  the  name  he  supposed  to  be  his,  the  union  was  not  valid. 
For  the  law  only  acknowledges  such  marriages  as  take  place 
under  the  true  and  lawful  names  of  both  parties.  If  one  or  the 
other,  though  wholly  innocent  and  ignorant  of  any  mistake, 
turns  out  to  have  been  married  under  a  wrong  appellation,  the 
office  is  void  and  of  no  effect.  The  question  was,  whether  Greif, 
as  Sigmundskron,  was  legally  Hilda's  husband.  Rex  was  in 
clined  to  believe  that  he  was.  The  Heralds'  Office  might  with 
draw  from  him  the  name  and  arms  of  Greifenstein,  but  Rex 
did  not  believe  that  they  could  interdict  Greif  from  using  those 
of  Sigmundskron,  since  the  Sigmundskrons  had  themselves  con 
ferred  them  upon  him,  in  his  own  person,  whatever  he  was 
before.  In  that  case  Greif  was  really  and  truly  Sigmundskron, 
and  he  was  not  really  anything  else,  except  a  nameless  orphan. 
And,  if  so,  the  marriage  was  valid  after  all.  It  was  a  fortunate 
coincidence  which  had  given  a  name  to  a  man  who  really  had 
none  at  all. 

Of  course,  if  no  one  but  Rex  were  ever  to  know  the  secret, 
there  was  no  danger  in  store  for  the  young  couple.  But  if  any 
untoward  accident  should  reveal  it,  or  if  any  other  individual 
were  already  in  possession  of  it,  their  case  might  be  bad  indeed. 
Rex  could  not  think  of  it  without  experiencing  a  very  unpleas 
ant  sensation.  He  remembered  how  old  Greifenstein  had  lived 
during  five  and  twenty  years  in  ignorance  of  his  own  shame, 
and  how  it  had  found  him  out  at  last.  It  would  be  horrible 
indeed  if  such  a  catastrophe  should  fall  upon  Greif  and  Hilda. 
But  it  would  be  better,  in  the  extreme  case,  that  Greif  should 
learn  the  truth  first.  If  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  should  be  the 
first  to"  find  it  out,  it  was  impossible  to  foretell  what  might 
happen.  She  would  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  Greif  had  not 
known  it  when  he  married  her  daughter ;  she  would  remember 
how  he  had  done  his  best  to  refuse  Hilda,  and  she  would  ascribe 
that  to  his  knowledge  that  he  was  illegitimate ;  his  change  of 
name  would  look  like  a  piece  of  deliberate  scheming  to  supply 
himself  with  what  he  most  lacked,  a  name.  She  would  mis 
understand  all  his  actions  and  misconstrue  all  his  intentions; 
he  would  appear  to  her  in  the  light  of  a  clever  actor  who  had 
made  the  emotions  he  really  felt  serve  the  greater  ends  he  had 
so  carefully  concealed.  Rex  thought  of  her  behaviour  with 
regard  to  the  name,  and  he  understood  the  immense  value  she 
put  upon  it ;  he  saw  how  she  had  persuaded  herself  that  in 


GREIFENSTEIN.  297 

Greif  her  husband's  race  was  to  be  revived  again,  and  he  could 
guess  what  she  would  feel  when  she  discovered  that  she  had 
conferred  what  she  held  most  holy  on  earth,  not  upon  an  un 
fortunate  nobleman,  but  upon  a  murderer's  bastard,  who  had 
cleverly  robbed  her  of  what  she  could  no  longer  take  back. 

Rex  thought  of  the  strange  fatality  which  pursued  himself 
and  his  brother.  He  himself  had  been  the  chief  cause  of  the 
present  situation,  both  by  his  silence  concerning  the  secret  and 
by  his  constant  efforts  to  promote  the  marriage.  If  he  had  pos 
sessed  old  Greifenstein's  character,  he  would  have  acted  very 
differently.  He  would  have  told  Greif  the  truth  brutally  in 
order  to  prevent  even  the  distant  possibility  of  such  mischief 
as  might  now  arise.  And  yet  Rex's  conscience  did  not  reproach 
him.  He  asked  himself  whether  he  could  possibly  have  dealt 
such  a  blow  upon  any  human  being,  especially  upon  one  who 
had  suffered,  like  Greif,  almost  all  that  a  man  can  suffer  and 
live.  He  wondered  whether  he  were  amenable  to  the  law  for 
his  silence,  though  he  really  cared  very  little  about  the  legality 
or  illegality  of  his  actions  in  the  present  case.  He  felt  that 
both  he  and  his  brother  were  men  beyond  the  pale  of  common 
laws,  pursued  by  an  evil  destiny  that  did  not  quite  leave  them 
even  in  their  happiness.  He  went  back  to  his  own  father's 
story  from  its  first  beginning,  and  beyond  that  to  the  untimely 
death  of  the  father  of  old  Greifenstein,  which  had  led  to  the 
second  marriage  of  the  latter's  mother,  and  so  to  the  birth  of 
Rieseneck  with  all  his  woes  and  miserable  deeds ;  then  to  the 
early  quarrels  of  the  two  half-brothers,  to  their  separation,  to 
the  singular  state  of  things  in  which  Greifenstein  hardly  knew 
of  his  brother's  marriage  and  never  saw  the  face  of  his  brother's 
wife ;  then  onward  to  Rieseneck's  surrender  of  the  arsenal 
guard,  to  his  imprisonment,  escape  and  exile,  followed  by  his 
wife's  unlawful  marriage  to  the  brother  of  her  living  husband, 
then  to  the  evil  fatality  which  had  sent  a  child  in  this  false 
union  to  inherit  so  much  shame  and  horror,  to  be  saved  from 
it,  so  far  at  least,  by  his  unknown  brother,  appearing  as  his 
cousin,  Rex,  the  traitor's  son.  In  such  a  train  of  destiny,  what 
might  not  be  yet  in  store  for  Horst  von  Rieseneck  and  for  his 
brother  Greif  von  Sigmundskron  ? 

Rex  almost  smiled  as  he  gave  to  each,  in  his  imagination,  the 
only  name  that  was  lawfully  his  —  he  smiled  at  the  ingenuity 
of  fate  in  finding  so  much  mischief  to  do. 


298  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

REX  was  mistaken  in  his  opinion  concerning  the  letter. 
Before  he  died  old  Greifenstein  had  actually  written  it,  as  he 
had  intended  to  do,  and  had  directed  it  to  his  son.  It  is  not 
yet  time  to  explain  what  became  of  it,  but  in  order  to  make 
this  history  more  clear,  it  is  as  well  to  state  at  once  that  it  was 
not  destroyed,  but  was  actually  in  existence  at  the  time  of 
Greif's  marriage  to  Hilda. 

It  is  necessai'y,  however,  to  consider  the  development  of  Rex's 
character  during  the  year  which  followed  the  wedding,  in  order 
to  understand  the  events  which  afterwards  occurred.  It  had 
been  his  intention  to  undertake  a  journey  to  South  America, 
when  all  was  settled,  in  order  to  wind  up  his  father's  affairs, 
and  ascertain  the  extent  of  the  fortune  he  inherited.  He  was 
well  aware  that  he  was  very  rich,  but  as  this  was  nothing  new 
to  him,  and  as  he  had  always  had  whatever  he  wished,  he  was 
in  no  hurry  to  find  out  the  exact  amount  of  his  income.  The 
property  was  well  administered,  too,  and  there  was  no  danger 
of  loss,  as  Rieseneck  had  taken  pains  to  provide  against  every 
contingency  before  making  his  last  voyage  to  Europe.  Rex  was 
personally  acquainted  with  the  persons  to  whom  his  father  had 
confided  the  management  of  his  wealth,  and  so  soon  as  they 
were  informed  of  the  latter's  death,  they  took  all  the  legal  steps 
necessary  to  secure  the  inheritance,  and  remitted  large  sums  of 
money  to  the  heir  at  regular  intervals  and  with  scrupulous 
exactness. 

At  first  his  situation  seemed  rather  a  strange  one,  and  he  did 
not  exactly  know  what  to  do.  Immediately  after  the  marriage 
he  found  himself  at  Greifenstein  alone  with  Hilda's  mother, 
who  submitted  to  the  arrangement  readily  enough.  It  was 
natural,  she  said,  that  the  young  people  should  wish  to  be  left 
to  themselves  for  some  time.  They  had  declared  that  when 
they  were  ready  for  society  they  would  drive  over  from  Sig- 
mundskron,  and  bring  back  the  baroness  and  Rex.  These  two, 


GREIFENSTEIN.  299 

being  both  exceedingly  methodical  persons,  agreed  very  well, 
and  they  found  plenty  to  talk  about  in  the  possibilities  of  the 
future.  Rex  was  utterly  indifferent  to  solitude  or  company, 
but  since  the  baroness  was  to  be  his  companion,  he  took  some 
trouble  to  make  himself  agreeable.  She,  on  her  part,  knew  well 
enough  that  the  days  when  she  could  be  constantly  with  Hilda 
were  over,  and  she  was  glad  that  her  son-in-law  had  such  a 
man  as  Rex  for  his  cousin.  For  Rex  was  far  too  tactful  to 
parade  his  philosophic  views  in  the  presence  of  a  lady  whose 
practical  religion  he  admired  and  respected,  so  that  the  only 
point  upon  which  the  two  could  have  differed  seriously  was 
carefully  avoided.  An  odd  sort  of  intimacy  sprang  up  between 
them,  which  neither  had  anticipated.  Frau  von  Sigmundskron 
was  surprised  to  find  in  Rex  so  much  ready  sympathy  with  her 
ideas,  for  her  German  soul  would  have  been  naturally  inclined 
to  find  fault  with  a  man  who  had  been  brought  up  in  South 
America,  and  whose  father  could  not  have  been  supposed 
capable  of  teaching  him  much  sound  morality.  Nor  would  it 
have  seemed  likely  that  her  somewhat  narrow,  though  elevated 
view  of  things  in  general  would  find  a  ready  appreciation  in 
one  whose  great  breadth  of  understanding  had  made  him 
familiar  with  all  manner  of  heretically  modern  notions.  She 
did  not  comprehend  his  nature,  but  she  was  satisfied  in  his 
society. 

There  are,  perhaps,  no  persons  more  agreeable  to  live  with 
than  those  few  who  have  become  conservative  through  excessive 
and  constant  change.  They  bring  back  with  them  to  the  land 
of  stabilities  an  intimate  practical  knowledge  of  what  instability 
really  means,  which  distinguishes  them  from  people  who  have 
lived  within  the  shadow  of  their  own  steeple  through  a  lifetime 
of  dogged  tradition-worship.  Rex  had  tried  everything  that 
the  world  can  give,  except  fame,  which  was  beyond  his  reach, 
and,  at  forty  years  of  age,  he  had  a  decided  preference  for  old- 
fashioned  people.  His  placid  disposition  liked  their  quiet  ways 
and  abhorred  all  sorts  of  trivial  excitement ;  he  was  a  man  who 
was  intimately  conscious  of  the  inanity  of  most  forms  of  amuse 
ment,  and  of  the  emptiness  of  most  kinds  of  sensations.  The 
cold,  still  depths  of  his  heart  could  not  be  warmed  to  a  pleasur 
able  heat  by  the  small  emotions  which  the  world  covets,  and  so 
eagerly  pursues.  He  sometimes  wondered  what  would  happen 
if  he  were  really  roused.  He  had  not  often  been  angry  in  his 


300  GREIFENSTEIN. 

life,  but  he  had  noticed,  with  his  habit  of  self -observation,  that 
his  anger  seldom  failed  to  produce  tangible  results,  even  when 
it  was  half  assumed.  It  was  natural  to  suppose  that  if  he 
should  ever  be  goaded  to  madness,  he  might  turn  out  to  be  a 
very  dangerous  animal,  but  such  a  case  appeared  to  him 
extremely  improbable,  because  he  could  scarcely  conceive  of 
anything  which  could  affect  his  temper  for  more  than  a  few 
minutes.  It  is  certainly  true  that  persons  who  do  not  indulge 
their  passions  are  less  exposed  to  be  assailed  by  them  at  every 
turn,  though  the  capacity  for  passion  itself  in  extreme  cases 
increases  in  an  opposite  ratio. 

Rex  and  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  became  intimate,  therefore, 
and  grew  more  fond  of  each  other's  company  than  they  had 
expected  to  be.  But  they  were  not  left  long  to  their  solitary 
state  in  Greifenstein.  At  the  end  of  a  week,  Greif  and 
Hilda  appeared,  more  radiant  in  their  new  happiness  than 
before.  They  proposed  that  Rex  and  the  baroness  should  come 
over  to  Sigmundskron  for  a  month,  after  which  they  announced 
their  intention  of  travelling  for  some  time. 

Hilda  had  given  Rex  her  hand,  which  according  to  German 
custom  she  could  not  do  before  she  was  married.  He  had  almost 
dreaded  to  touch  it  when  he  saw  it  before  him,  so  strong  was 
still  the  first  impression  he  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  conquer. 
Strangely  enough,  this  was  the  last  time  he  ever  felt  a  return 
of  his  old  antipathy.  It  seemed  as  though  the  contact  of  Hilda's 
gloved  fingers  had  wrought  a  change  in  him.  He  looked  up 
and  saw  a  smile  upon  her  face. 

"Do  you  hate  me  still?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  his  tone. 

He  did  not  hate  her  any  more,  it  was  true,  but  he  felt 
unaccountably  embarrassed  by  her  presence.  He  was  silent, 
preoccupied,  strangely  dull  and  unresponsive. 

"  Why  do  you  never  talk  before  Hilda  ?  "  asked  Greif,  in  his 
straightforward  way,  when  they  had  all  been  a  week  at  Sig 
mundskron  together. 

"  Men  are  often  silent  before  nature's  greatest  works,"  said 
Rex  quietly,  and  without  looking  at  Hilda  as  he  spoke. 

"Do  you  hear  that  enormous  compliment?"  asked  Greif, 
addressing  her. 

"  I  do  not  understand  it,"  answered  Hilda,  with  a  laugh.  "  I 
believe  he  hates  me  still !  " 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  301 

"  No,"  he  answered  gravely,  "  you  are  quite  mistaken,  and  I 
was  not  thinking  of  making  compliments." 

"But  it  is  true,  since  Greif  has  spoken  of  it,"  Hilda  said. 
"  You  do  not  talk  when  I  am  present,  though  both  Greif  and 
my  mother  say  that  no  one  talks  better.  What  does  it  mean, 
when  a  man  is  silent,  Greif?" 

"  It  generally  means  that  he  is  in  love." 

"  With  me  ?  "  Hilda  laughed  gaily  at  the  thought,  which 
conveyed  no  more  idea  of  possibility  to  her  than  it  did  to  Greif, 
or  even,  at  that  moment,  to  Rex  himself. 

"  I  should  be,  if  I  were  Greif,"  Rex  answered,  pretending  to 
laugh  a  little. 

He  thought  of  what  had  been  said,  when  he  was  alone,  and 
there  seemed  nothing  laughable  in  it.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
angry  with  Greif  for  suggesting  a  thought  which  had  certainly 
not  occurred  to  him  before.  He  knew  well  enough,  now  that 
he  considered  the  matter,  that  there  was  no  inherent  reason  in 
the  nature  of  things  why  he  might  not  fall  in  love  with  Hilda, 
and  it  struck  him  rather  forcibly  that  he  occasionally  acted  as 
though  he  were  in  that  condition,  or  at  least  as  he  might  have 
done,  had  he  been  in  love  at  twenty.  But  he  was  twice  that 
age,  and  there  was  an  evident  discrepancy  between  his  behav 
iour  and  his  reasoning,  which  rendered  the  supposition  utterly 
absurd.  He  did  not  believe  that  a  man  could  be  in  love  in 
the  smallest  degree  without  being  aware  of  it,  and  he  felt  that 
if  he  were  aware  that  he  loved  his  brother's  wife,  he  should 
forthwith  leave  the  country  for  ever.  Moreover,  until  very 
lately  he  had  believed  that  he  positively  disliked  Hilda,  and  it 
would  be  strange  indeed  if  a  strong  antipathy  had  thus  suddenly 
developed  into  a  sentiment  capable  of  suggesting  Greif 's  careless 
remark.  Rex  promised  himself  that  when  they  met  that  evening 
at  dinner  his  behaviour  should  be  very  different.  It  was  true 
that  he  had  not  thought  much  about  the  matter,  until  Hilda 
had  asked  the  cause  of  his  silence.  He  was  in  the  habit  of 
holding  his  tongue  when  he  had  nothing  to  say,  unlike  many 
younger  men.  He  was  also  aware  that  he  admired  Hilda's 
beauty,  as  he  had  always  done,  even  when  he  had  most  disliked 
her  personality.  The  flash  of  her  eyes  and  hair  as  she  had 
rushed  to  the  bed  where  Greif  was  almost  dying,  had  produced 
a  permanent  impression  upon  Rex,  much  at  variance  with  what 
he  had  felt  towards  herself,  as  distinguished  from  her  outward 


302  GREIFENSTEIN. 

appearance.  He  had  next  attributed  his  antipathy  to  jealousy 
of  her;  he  wondered,  now,  how  he  could  have  made  such  a 
blunder.  He  had*  nothing  but  gratitude  for  her  now,  for  the 
share  she  had  taken  in  saving  his  brother's  life,  nothing  but 
gratitude  and  a  certain  brotherly  affection,  as  undefined  as  his 
dislike  had  been  before. 

Rex  thought  he  was  losing  the  use  of  his  faculties,  or  falling 
into  a  premature  dotage  since  he  could  waste  so  much  thought 
over  such  an  insignificant  point,  and  he  made  up  his  mind, 
after  all,  not  to  attempt  any  determined  change  in  his  conduct, 
but  to  talk  or  hold  his  peace  as  the  spirit  moved  him.  The 
result  was  that  he  talked  exceptionally  well,  very  much  to  his 
own  surprise.  Before  many  days  were  passed  he  found  that  he 
had  so  completely  altered  his  behaviour,  that  he  was  now  gener 
ally  silent  when  Hilda  was  not  present,  whereas  her  coming  was 
the  signal  for  him  to  exhibit  an  almost  unnatural  brilliancy. 

"I  amuse  them,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  some  satisfaction. 
"  They  are  pleased,  and  that  is  enough." 

Hilda  and  Greif  carried  out  their  intention  of  travelling  dur 
ing  the  autumn.  To  Greif  it  seemed  impossible  that  Hilda 
should  any  longer  remain  in  total  ignorance  of  the  outer  world. 
They  would  go  away,  in  the  first  place,  for  three  months,  and 
they  would  all  be  back  together  for  an  old-fashioned  Christmas 
in  Sigmundskron.  Their  absence  would  give  time  for  a  few  of 
the  more  essential  repairs  to  be  made  in  the  castle,  before  under 
taking  the  extensive  restorations  that  were  necessary.  Frau 
von  Sigmundskron  had  said  that  she  would  stay  behind  and 
superintend  as  well  as  she  could. 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Rex  ?  "  asked  Greif. 

"  I  will  help  Aunt  Therese,"  answered  the  other. 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  somewhere  and  amuse  yourself  ?  " 

"  That  is  easier  said  than  done.  My  amusement  will  consist 
in  counting  the  days  until  you  come  back.  We  shall  both  do 
that." 

"  Why  not  go  and  stay  at  Greif enstein  as  you  both  did  before? 
It  is  more  comfortable." 

"  I  prefer  this.  There  is  a  better  view.  I  think  I  will  buy 
the  top  of  the  hill  over  there,  and  lay  the  foundation  of  an 
observatory.  It  will  be  an  occupation,  and  they  send  me  so 
much  money  that  I  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  it." 


GEEIPENSTEIN.  303 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  build  a  house  to  live  in,"  said 
Greif ,  suddenly.  "  Remember  that  your  home  is  here." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Rex.  * 

The  words  were  pleasant  to  him,  for  in  the  last  month  he  had 
begun  to  feel  an  attachment  for  Sigmundskron  which  he  had 
never  felt  for  any  place  before.  The  mere  idea  of  leaving  it  was 
painful  to  him,  and  if  he  must  be  parted  for  a  time  from  Greif 
and  Hilda  —  he  coupled  their  names  in  his  thoughts,  and  rather 
obstinately,  too  —  he  knew  that  the  time  would  pass  more 
quickly  in  the  old  castle  than  anywhere  else.  Ait  forty  years  of 
age,  the  idea  of  beginning  again  the  wandering  life  he  had  led 
so  long,  rambling  from  one  country  and  capital  to  another,  now 
spending  a  year  at  a  University  and  then  six  months  in  Paris, 
or  a  winter  in  St.  Petersburg,  never  settled,  never  at  home, 
though  at  home  everywhere  —  the  mere  thought  was  painfully 
repugnant.  To  live  with  Greif  and  Hilda  in  their  ancient  home, 
to  build  at  last  the  noble  observatory  of  which  he  had  often  idly 
dreamed,  and  to  spend  the  best  years  of  life  that  remained  to 
him  in  peaceful  study  among  those  he  loved,  was  a  prospect 
infinitely  attracting,  and  apparently  most  easy  of  realisation. 

When  Hilda  and  Greif  were  gone,  Rex  discovered  that  they 
were  really  the  central  figures  in  his  visions  of  future  happiness. 
The  emptiness  they  left  behind  was  indescribably  dreary.  He 
wondered  why  he  had  not  experienced  the  same  sensation  when 
he  and  the  baroness  had  stayed  at  Greifenstein  after  the  wed 
ding.  He  had  not  missed  the  two  so  painfully  then ;  indeed  he 
had  enjoyed  the  baroness's  society  very  much,  and  would  not 
then  have  been  altogether  sorry  to  have  been  left  with  her  for  a 
longer  time.  But  the  month  they  had  spent  at  Sigmundskron 
had  produced  a  great  change,  it  seemed.  Before  that,  he  had 
assuredly  not  been  in  the  habit  of  thinking  so  much  about  Greif 
and  Hilda,  nor,  in  Greifenstein,  had  he  expected  to  meet  them 
at  every  turn,  in  every  dusky  corner,  when  he  walked  through 
the  house  alone,  as  was  the  case  now.  It  was  quite  certain  that 
they  had  not  formerly  haunted  his  dreams ;  whereas  now  he 
could  not  close  his  eyes  without  seeing  Hilda's  face,  and  Greif's 
beside  it. 

Though  their  absence  was  more  than  disagreeable  to  Rex,  he 
was,  on  the  whole,  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  when  he  dis 
covered  how  much  he  regretted  their  presence.  Until  lately  he 


304  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

had  never  missed  anybody,  nor  cared  whether  he  were  alone  or 
in  company.  He  could  not  have  looked  forward  with  so  much 
satisfaction  to  passing  the  rest  of  his  life  with  Greif  and  Hilda 
if  he  had  not  cared  for  their  society.  The  prospect  would  have 
been  repugnant  instead  of  attractive  in  that  case,  and  he  would 
have  preferred  to  build  a  house  of  his  own.  He  was  delighted 
at  the  glimpse  of  the  future  afforded  him  during  the  past  month, 
and  he  was  satisfied  with  the  position  he  was  to  occupy  in  the 
house.  He  was  old  enough  to  love  Greif  and  Hilda  in  a  some 
what  fatherly  way,  though  he  looked  so  young.  After  all,  a 
man  of  forty  could  be  father  to  a  girl  of  nineteen,  and  it  was  a 
pleasant  privilege  to  call  her  cousin  Hilda,  and  to  treat  her  as  a 
sort  of  niece.  Rex  supposed  that  before  long  his  brown  hair 
and  beard  would  begin  to  turn  grey.  He  looked  forward  to 
feeling  himself  older  and  wiser  than  Hilda  and  Greif,  as  indeed 
he  might,  and  he  intended  to  take  great  interest  in  the  educa 
tion  of  their  children,  who  would  look  up  to  him  as  to  something 
between  a  grandfather  and  an  uncle  in  ten  or  fifteen  years'  time. 
It  would  be  very  delightful  to  teach  Hilda's  children  —  and 
Greif's,  and  there  was  nothing  to  hinder  Rex  from  building  his 
observatory  if  he  pleased. 

Of  one  thing  he  grew  very  certain,  namely,  that  life  without 
Greif  or  Hilda  would  be  intolerable.  Fortunately  he  found 
sympathy  in  this  thought  on  the  part  of  Frau  von  Sigmund- 
skron,  who  missed  the  two  as  much  as  Rex,  though  perhaps  in 
a  very  different  way.  They  talked  of  nothing  but  what  should 
be  done  when  the  pair  came  back  at  Christmas,  unless  the  post 
had  brought  one  of  those  short,  businesslike  efforts  of  affection 
which  happy  couples  send  to  their  parents  during  the  fii-st 
months  of  wedded  bliss.  On  those  occasions  the  two  sat 
together  discussing  the  letter  as  long  as  there  remained  in  it 
a  word  to  talk  about.  Rex  would  then  launch  out  into  vivid 
descriptions  of  the  town  or  country  whence  the  news  came,  sup 
plying  every  deficiency  in  the  correspondence  out  of  the  inex 
haustible  stores  of  his  memory,  telling  his  companion  all  that 
Hilda  and  Greif  must  have  seen  and  done,  even  though  they  had 
forgotten  to  give  a  full  account  of  their  proceedings.  The  baron 
ess  enjoyed  these  conversations  quite  as  much  as  though  she  had 
received  longer  letters,  but  Rex  was  conscious  of  an  odd  impulse 
to  fill  up  by  an  effort  of  his  imagination  the  numerous  lacunae 
in  the  sequence  of  news.  He  was  aware  that  his  disappointment 


GBEIFENSTEIN.  305 

when  no  letter  came  was  greater  than  he  had  expected,  and  that 
it  increased  until  he  felt  a  positive,  painful  anxiety  at  the  hour 
when  the  mail  came  in. 

But  though  the  days  sometimes  dragged  wearily  along,  they 
were  over  at  last,  and  Hilda  and  Greif  came  back.  They 
received  a  great  ovation  on  their  return,  and  the  Christmas 
that  followed  was  a  merry  one,  but  no  one  was  so  glad  to 
welcome  the  two  home  again  as  Rex.  His  face  was  so  much 
changed  by  his  delight  that  Greif  hardly  recognised  him  for 
the  man  he  had  left  behind  three  months  ago.  As  had  some 
times  happened,  though  very  rarely,  his  eyes  had  lost  their 
stony  impenetrability  for  a  few  moments ;  the  pupils  dilated 
and  were  full  of  light;  and  there  was  an  extraordinary  bril 
liancy  about  Rex's  usually  unruffled  features,  which  surprised 
Hilda  herself. 

Rex  looked  at  her,  too,  and  he  saw  that  a  transformation  had 
taken  place.  He  could  not  tell  whether  he  preferred  the  girlish 
simplicity  of  three  months  ago,  or  the  fuller  beauty  of  to-day. 
The  dress  made  a  difference,  also,  for  though  simple  still,  and 
severe,  what  Hilda  wore  was  the  work  of  more  skilful  hands  than 
her  own  or  old  BerbePs.  There  was  the  difference  between  un 
intentional  simplicity,  and  the  simplicity  of  a  refined  taste,  as 
in  Hilda's  self  Rex  would  soon  discover  the  change  from  the 
girl  to  the  woman. 

Rex  did  not  conceal  his  gladness,  and  it  was  in  itself  a  source 
of  pleasure  to  the  two  who  had  come  back.  During  the  first  few 
days  there  was  endless  festivity  and  endless  talk  about  all  they 
had  seen  and  done.  There  was  much  to  say  on  both  sides,  and 
small  time  to  say  it,  for  it  was  the  Christmas  season,  and  the 
Sigmundskrons  were  determined  to  make  it  a  happy  one  for  all 
their  people.  But  when  Twelfth  Night  was  gone  by,  and  quiet 
ness  descended  upon  the  four  occupants  of  the  castle,  they  found 
that  they  had  succeeded  in  telling  each  other  much  more  than 
they  supposed,  in  the  intervals  between  Christmas  trees,  and 
dinners  for  the  peasantry,  and  all  the  pleasant  noise  and  excite 
ment  of  the  Yuletide.  Very  soon  their  lives  dropped  into 
peaceful  channels  again,  and  upon  the  tidal  wave  of  merriment 
succeeded  the  calm  flow  of  an  untroubled  existence.  There 
was  no  end  of  the  work  to  be  done  upon  the  castle,  and  Greif 
entered  upon  it  with  boundless  enthusiasm,  while  Rex  helped 
him  at  every  turn  with  his  extraordinary  knowledge  of  all  mat- 


306  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

ters  in  which  exactness  was  required.  Hilda  marvelled  at  his 
amazing  versatility  and  at  the  apparent  depth  of  his  information 
upon  so  many  matters.  No  question  came  amiss  to  him  con 
nected  with  the  restoration,  from  the  customs  and  mode  of  life 
of  the  mediaeval  Germans  to  the  calculation  of  a  Gothic  arch  or 
a  winding  staircase. 

"  You  seem  to  know  everything,"  said  Hilda  one  day,  unable 
to  conceal  her  admiration. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  habit,"  Rex  answered  vaguely,  whereat  she 
laughed,  scarcely  knowing  why. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Rex,  explaining  himself,  "  that  you  are  in  the 
habit  of  supposing  that  a  man  only  understands  his  own  profes 
sion,  whereas  if  he  really  does  understand  it,  he  ought  not  to 
find  any  difficulty  in  acquiring  the  rudiments  of  any  other 
which  does  not  need  special  gifts.  Everything  which  depends 
upon  mathematics  is  more  or  less  connected  in  a  mathematical 
mind." 

"  That  sounds  very  reasonable.  I  wish  I  had  a  mathematical 
mind." 

"  You  have  what  is  better,"  answered  Rex,  looking  at  her. 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  Many  things.     Ask  Greif." 

His  tone  had  changed,  and  he  spoke  so  seriously  that  she  was 
surprised,  for  she  did  not  in  the  least  comprehend  his  mood.  It 
was  strange  to  himself,  and  he  afterwards  wondered  whether  his 
own  words  had  any  sense  in  them,  unwilling  to  allow  that  he 
had  spoken  out  of  the  fulness  of  an  admiration  he  had  no  right 
to  express.  He  did  not  say,  even  to  himself,  that  she  was  the 
most  beautiful  woman,  the  best,  the  kindest  he  had  ever  known, 
but  at  the  thought  of  what  he  would  have  said  in  his  own  heart, 
had  all  restraint  been  removed,  he  felt  a  shock,  such  as  a  man 
feels  who  strikes  his  hand  against  some  unexpected  sharp  object 
in  the  dark,  and  draws  back,  groping  his  way  carefully  lest  he 
should  hurt  himself  again. 

Certain  it  was  that  his  admiration  of  Hilda  threatened  to  pass 
the  bounds  by  which  admiration  of  any  sort  is  separated  from 
the  stronger  feelings  that  lie  beyond  it.  But  as  he  perceived 
this  in  the  course  of  time,  he  explained  it  away  by  telling  him 
self  that  it  was  natural  and  harmless.  Loving  his  brother  as  he 
did,  it  would  have  been  strange  if  he  had  not  felt  something 
like  devotion  for  the  woman  who  had  saved  his  brother's  life. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  307 

It  would  have  been  astonishing  if  he  had  not  felt  a  most  sin 
cere  affection  for  her,  if  he  had  not  been  willing  to  sacrifice 
anything  for  her. 

It  was  an  odd  sort  of  devotion  at  first,  for  it  grew  up  like  a 
tender  plant  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  sharp  pricks,  straight  in 
self-defence,  and  sensitive  by  avoiding  all  contact  with  things 
hurtful.  Rex  became  conscious  of  its  growth,  and  was  surprised 
to  find  anything  so  delicate  and  beautiful  in  his  own  heart, 
where  such  beauties  had  never  grown,  or  had  budded  only  to 
wither  prematurely,  leaving  the  ground  more  dry  and  arid  and 
unpromising  than  before.  It  was  as  though  a  soft  light  had 
dawned  in  his  soul  and  was  gradually  brightening  into  day. 
From  having  distrusted  himself  a  little  at  first,  he  put  an 
unbounded  faith  in  his  own  heart  since  he  saw  what  it  con 
tained.  He  would  even  talk  to  Greif  by  the  hour  together  of 
Hilda's  perfections,  vying  with  her  husband  in  discovering  new 
things  to  praise,  and  utterly  happy  in  the  freedom  of  speaking 
about  her  which  he  thus  enjoyed. 

He  fancied  that  he  looked  upon  her  almost  as  though  she  had 
been  his  daughter,  and  he  imagined  that  he  understood  stories 
he  had  read,  and  cases  he  had  known  in  his  own  experience, 
where  such  pui'e  affections  were  concerne'd.  He,  who  was  far 
from  imaginative  by  nature,  made  romances  in  the  air,  in  which 
he  fancied  that  he  had  once  been  married  to  a  woman  he  had 
loved  to  distraction  —  a  woman  not  unlike  Hilda,  perhaps  — 
and  that  Hilda  herself  was  the  daughter  of  that  union,  all  there 
was  left  to  remind  him  of  her  who  was  dead.  There  was  some 
thing  oddly  fantastic  in  the  thought,  which  satisfied  him  for  a 
time,  and  made  his  life  seem  full  of  a  love,  tender,  regretful, 
expressing  itself  in  a  boundless  devotion  to  the  one  object  which 
recalled  it. 

And  the  dead  woman  grew  in  his  fancy,  until  she  became  very 
lifelike.  He  could  remember  how  he  had  closed  her  darkened 
eyes,  and  smoothed  her  yellow  hair,  how  he  had  buried  her  on  a 
dark  winter's  day,  among  the  fir-trees,  and  how  through  long 
years  he  had  mourned  for  her,  while  Hilda  was  a  little  child  at 
his  knee.  It  was  all  fancy,  but  it  was  very  vivid.  Then  he 
could  go  back  still  farther,  he  could  recall  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  for  Hilda's  own  reminded  him  of  it,  and  out  of  the  misty 
echoes  of  past  time  he  could  reconstruct  conversations,  phrases 
of  love,  words  full  of  meaning.  He  remembered  their  first 


308  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

meeting,  in  an  ancient  castle  in  a  distant  land  —  he  had  been  a 
guest  in  her  father's  house  —  so  long  ago.  He  remembered  how 
they  had  ridden  together  so  often  through  a  dim  forest,  and 
how  the  echo  of  the  horses'  hoofs  amongst  the  ringing  trees  had 
broken  upon  the  silvery  music  of  her  voice.  It  all  came  back 
to  him,  the  scene,  the  colour  of  the  shadows ;  the  snort  of  the 
horses,  the  curves  of  her  figure  as  she  sat  so  straight  in  the  sad 
dle,  the  silences  that  said  more  than  words.  Then  the  scene 
changed,  and  they  were  upon  a  moonlit  lawn  in  summer.  He 
was  standing  still,  and  she  was  coming  towards  him  through 
the  misty  light.  His  heart  beat  fast.  Slender  and  tall  as  a  fair 
spirit  she  advanced.  Her  two  hands  were  held  out  before  her, 
and  found  his.  Face  to  face  they  stood  in  silence,  their  gaze 
meeting  —  was  it  to  be,  or  not?  Then,  in  that  wonderful  mo 
ment,  he  felt  his  own  hard  eyes  soften  and  saw  the  warm  light 
in  hers.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  as  his  arms  went  round  her  — 
then  they  turned  and  walked  together  upon  the  dark,  dewless 
grass,  beneath  the  summer  moon. 

And  again,  he  was  with  her  upon  a  balcony  at  night.  In  the 
warm  dusk  he  could  see  the  whiteness  of  her  face,  and  the  out 
line  of  her  figure.  She  had  said  something,  and  he  had  felt  the 
hot  blood  surging  to  his  forehead,  and  falling  again,  as  by  its 
own  weight,  upon  his  heart.  All  at  once  he  had  answered  her 
with  such  words  as  he  had  not  guessed  a  man  could  speak,  for 
they  had  broken  forth  in  a  passionate  eloquence,  unrestrained 
and  fresh  with  young  life,  as  words  first  spoken  can  be.  He 
could  not  always  remember  them  now  ;  the  heartfelt  ring  of 
them  waked  him  from  his  sleep,  sometimes  ;  and  again,  in  the 
midst  of  the  occupations  of  the  day,  the  stirring  echo  of  their 
music  filled  the  room  in  a  moment  and  was  gone  before  he 
could  seize  it,  or  was  blown  into  his  ear  by  the  clear  breeze  that 
swept  the  valley. 

The  dead  woman  was  alive  —  the  woman  who  had  never  lived 
save  in  his  brain  —  and  Hilda  was  growing  to  be  like  her.  Rex 
watched  them  both,  her  whom  he  saw  with  open  eyes,  and  her 
who  was  present  with  him  the  instant  his  eyes  were  closed.  No 
daughter  was  ever  so  exact  an  image  of  the  mother  who  had 
boi'ne  her ;  line  for  line,  the  features  grew  to  be  the  same,  shade 
for  shade  the  colour  of  the  one  became  the  colour  of  the  other, 
coil  for  coil  the  yellow  hair  of  both  was  wound  alike  upon 
the  noble  head.  And  the  love  of  this  dead  woman,  who 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  309 

had  never  breathed,  but  whom  he  had  buried  with  such  bitter 
tears  and  such  heartbroken  grief,  filled  his  whole  being  and 
twined  itself  through  all  the  mazes  of  his  complex  nature,  till 
no  action  of  his  life  was  independent  of  it,  and  no  thought  free 
from  its  all-dominating  influence. 

In  the  first  beginnings  of  this  creation  of  his  fancy  he  had 
found  such  peace  and  such  sweet  melancholy  satisfaction  that 
he  had  encouraged  its  growth  and  had  tried  to  persuade  him 
self  of  its  reality.  And  the  reality  had  come,  so  far  as  it  can 
come  to  anything  wholly  built  up  in  the  imagination.  It  had 
also  brought  with  it  its  consequences,  unless  it  could  be  said 
to  be  a  consequence  in  itself.  Ilex's  devotion  to  Hilda  in 
creased  with  every  day,  as  she  seemed  to  him  to  be  more  and 
more  like  the  woman  he  had  loved,  the  mother  he  had  imag 
ined  for  her  in  place  of  her  own.  For  it  was  out  of  Hilda  her 
self  that  his  love  for  a  shadow  had  grown  to  be  what  it  was, 
and  the  shadow  itself  was  but  the  reflection  of  Hilda's  present 
brightness  upon  the  misty  emptiness  of  his  own  past  life. 

Rex  was  very  happy.  The  dreams  that  filled  the  hours  did 
not  hinder  his  actions ;  on  the  contrary,  the  latter  seemed  to  be 
supplied  at  last  with  the  purpose  they  had  lacked  during  forty 
years,  the  purpose  to  honour  the  love  that  was  in  him,  and  to 
please  Hilda,  the  outcome  of  that  love.  All  that  he  did  seemed 
to  acquire  directness  and  perfection  of  detail,  all  that  he  said 
was  dignified  by  a  tender  thought  for  this  child  of  an  adored 
vision,  until  those  who  lived  with  him  were  amazed  at  his  wis 
dom  and  kindness,  and  wondered  whether  the  world  had  ever 
held  his  like  before. 

The  busy  months  went  by  and  the  summer  was  at  hand. 
Much  had  been  done  to  Sigmundskron,  but  there  was  work  for 
years  to  come,  before  it  should  be  what  Greif  dreamed  of.  But 
one  day  in  June  the  work  ceased  suddenly,  and  all  was  hushed 
and  still.  The  servants  trod  noiselessly  and  spoke  in  whispers, 
and  Rex  found  himself  left  to  his  own  devices  with  no  com 
panion  but  the  dear  idol  of  his  fancy.  The  whole  household 
life  seemed  suspended. 

It  was  the  silence  of  a  great  happiness.  On  that  fair  June 
morning  Hilda  had  borne  her  husband  an  heir  to  Sigmund 
skron. 


310  GKEIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

BERBEL,  transformed  into  the  housekeeper  of  Sigmundskron, 
was  busy  with  the  preparations  for  the  christening.  A  year  of 
uninterrupted  prosperity  had  made  her  a  trifle  more  sleek  than 
before,  and  though  she  still  affected  a  Spartan  simplicity  of 
dress,  her  frock  was  made  of  better  materials  than  formerly, 
and  her  cap  was  adorned  with  black  ribbands  of  real  silk. 

The  day  was  warm,  and  Berbel  came  out  into  the  court  to 
breathe  the  air.  As  she  stood  at  the  door  trying  to  remember 
whether  she  had  forgotten  anything,  a  man  entered  the  gate 
and  strode  across  the  pavement.  It  was  Wastei,  and  he  carried 
in  his  hand  a  magnificent  string  of  trout,  threaded  by  the  gills 
upon  a  willow  withe.  lie  bore  his  burden  very  carefully,  and 
it  was  clear  that  he  had  gone  home  to  dress  himself  after  catch 
ing  the  trout  and  before  coming  to  the  castle,  for  he  was  splen 
didly  arrayed  in  a  pair  of  new  leather  breeches  and  he  wore  a 
velvet  coat,  the  like  of  which  had  not  been  seen  in  Sigmunds- 
dorf  within  the  memory  of  man,  for,  like  Berbel's  ribbands,  it 
was  of  real  silk.  Berbel  eyed  him  curiously.  She  had  an  odd 
liking  for  the  fellow. 

"  God  greet  you,  Frau  Berbel,"  said  Wastei  with  far  more 
politeness  than  he  vouchsafed  to  most  people,  high  or  low. 
"  I  have  brought  these  fish  for  the  christening  feast,  and  I  have 
seen  worse." 

Berbel  took  the  willow  wand  from  his  hand,  tried  the  weight, 
counted  the  trout  with  a  housewife's  eye,  tried  the  weight 
again,  and  then  nodded  approvingly. 

"  They  are  good  fish,"  she  said,  looking  them  over  once 
more. 

Wastei  drew  a  bright  red  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  and 
carefully  wiped  his  sinewy  brown  hands.  Then  without  further 
ceremony  he  sat  down  upon  the  stone  curb  at  the  corner  of  the 
steps,  as  though  he  had  done  his  business  and  meant  to  rest 
himself  without  paying  any  more  attention  to  Berbel.  She 


GKEEFENSTEIN.  311 

liked  him  for  his  independence  and  taciturnity.  Moreover,  in 
the  old  days  of  starving  poverty,  Waste!  had  done  her  many  a 
good  service  she  had  never  been  able  to  reward,  and  had  brought 
many  a  plump  hare  and  many  a  brace  of  quails  to  the  empty 
larder,  swearing  that  he  had  come  by  them  honestly,  and  offer 
ing  to  exchange  them  for  a  little  mending  to  his  tattered 
clothes.  Berbel  used  to  suspect  that  Waste!  knew  more  of  the 
nakedness  of  the  land  than  he  admitted,  and  that  he  risked 
more  than  one  dangerous  bit  of  poaching  out  of  secret  pity  for 
the  poor  ladies  who  were  known  to  buy  so  little  food  in  the 
village.  They  were  better  off  now,  both  she  and  Wastei,  but  as 
she  looked  at  the  broad  expanse  of  black  velvet  that  covered 
his  square,  flat  back,  she  remembered  the  days  when  he  had 
come  ragged  to  the  back  door  to  throw  down  a  good  meal  of 
game  upon  the  kitchen  table,  going  off  the  next  minute  with 
nothing  but  a  bit  of  black  bread  in  prospect  for  his  supper. 

"  I  will  take  them  to  the  baron  myself,"  said  Berbel. 

Wastei  looked  up  as  though  he  had  supposed  she  was  already 
gone  in. 

"  Thank  you,  Frau  Berbel,"  he  answered. 

Five  minutes  later  she  returned,  carrying  a  black  bottle,  a 
glass  and  something  small  shut  in  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

"  The  baron  thanks  you  and  sends  you  this,"  she  said,  hold 
ing  out  a  gold  piece.  "  And  I  have  brought  you  this,"  she 
added,  filling  the  glass,  "  because  I  know  you  like  it." 

"  Luck !  "  ejaculated  Wastei,  slipping  the  twenty-mark  piece 
into  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat,  and  watching  the  white  liquor 
as  it  rose  nearer  to  the  brim. 

He  took  the  glass,  twisted  it  in  his  fingers,  held  it  to  the  sun, 
and  then  looked  again  at  Berbel. 

"  God  greet,"  he  said,  and  tossed  off  the  liquor  in  a  trice. 
"  Luck !  "  he  exclaimed  again,  as  he  smacked  his  lips. 

"  Why  do  you  say  luck,  in  that  way?  "  asked  the  good  woman. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Frau  Berbel,"  answered  Wastei,  lowering  his 
tone.  "  It  is  the  new  coat  that  brought  me  luck  to-day." 

"  It  is  a  good  coat,"  observed  Berbel,  in  her  usual  manner. 

"  Well,  I  came  by  it  through  a  gold  piece  and  a  drink  of  that 
same  good  stuff." 

"  Cheap.     It  is  a  good  coat." 

"  Do  you  remember,  after  the  devil  had  flown  away  with  the 
old  wolf  of  Greifenstein  —  " 


312  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  Hush,  for  mercy's  sake  !  "  exclaimed  Berbel.  "  You  must 
not  talk  like  that  —  " 

"  He  was  a  wolf.  I  believe  he  would  have  torn  a  poor  free- 
shot  like  me  to  pieces  if  he  could.  I  had  him  after  me  once, 
and  I  remember  his  eyes.  If  he  had  been  ten  years  younger, 
and  if  I  had  not  dropped  through  a  hole  I  knew  of  so  that  he 
thought  I  had  fallen  over  the  Falcon  Stone  beyond  Zavelstein, 
he  would  have  caught  me.  He  looked  for  my  body  two  days 
with  his  keepers.  Well,  the  devil  got  him,  as  you  know,  for 
he  killed  himself.  And  after  that  the  young  lord  was  ill  and 
you  sent  me  off  at  night  for  news,  because  Fraulein  Hilda  could 
not  sleep.  Well,  you  remember  how  I  brought  back  the  bad 
news,  and  a  gold  piece  Herr  Rex  had  given  me,  and  which  I 
supposed  must  be  for  your  ladies  because  they  had  not  many  at 
that  time,  though  I  thought  it  queer.  Good,  and  the  baroness 
said  it  must  be  for  me  —  you  remember  all  that  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Berbel,  suppressing  a  smile  by  force  of 
habit. 

"  So  I  took  the  gold  piece,  but  I  would  not  use  it  nor  change 
it,  for  I  said  it  was  the  price  of  bad  news,  though  I  owed  the 
host  at  the  Ox  three  marks  and  a  half  at  the  time.  I  took  my 
gold  piece  and  I  put  it  in  a  safe  place,  where  nobody  would 
have  thought  of  looking  for  it." 

"  Where  was  that? "  asked  Berbel,  as  he  paused. 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  I  will  tell  you.  There  is  a  place 
in  the  forest,  called  Waldeck,  where  there  is  a  ruined  castle,  and 
before  the  gate  there  are  three  trees  and  a  stump  of  an  old  tree 
farther  on  —  it  is  all  thick  and  full  of  brushwood  and  pines  and 
birches,  so  that  my  three  trees  look  very  much  like  the  others, 
but  when  you  have  found  them,  you  must  take  a  straight  line 
from  the  right  hand  one  to  the  stump  —  you  will  find  it  if  you 
look,  and  then  go  on  past  the  stump  about  a  hundred  ells, 
always  straight,  and  then  you  will  come  to  a  flat  stone ;  and  the 
stone  is  loose  so  that  it  turns  round  easily,  if  you  are  strong- 
enough  to  move  it,  and  underneath  it  there  is  a  deep  hole.  I 
put  my  gold  piece  at  the  bottom  of  this  hole  and  set  a  heavy 
stone  upon  it,  and  then  I  got  out  and  drew  the  big  stone  into 
its  place,  and  went  away.  I  did  not  think  that  any  one  would 
be  likely  to  look  for  a  twenty-mark  piece  just  in  that  spot." 

"Improbable,"  assented  Berbel,  her  massive  rnouth  twitching 
with  amusement. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  313 

"  Very.  And  I  said  to  myself,  Wastei,  you're  a  brave  fellow, 
and  you  shall  starve  to  death  rather  than  use  the  gold  which  is 
the  price  of  bad  news ;  but  if  the  son  of  the  old  wolf  gets  well, 
and  marries  Frau  Bei-bel's  young  lady,  and  if  the  good  God 
sends  them  a  boy,  then,  Wastei,  you  shall  go  and  get  the  gold 
piece  and  spend  it  at  the  christening.  You  see  Herr  Rex  had 
given  me  a  drink  with  the  money,  just  as  you  did,  so  that  there 
was  a  chance  of  its  turning  out  well  after  all,  and  I  knew  that 
—  because  if  there  had  been  no  chance,  why  then,  money  is 
money,  after  all." 

"  And  so  now  you  have  bought  a  coat  with  it?  " 

"  And  what  a  coat !  The  Jew  had  had  it  in  his  shop  for  six 
months,  but  nobody  could  buy  it  because  it  was  so  dear." 

"The  Jew?  "  inquired  Berbel,  looking  sharply  at  Wastei. 

"Yes  —  and  do  you  know  what  I  think,  Frau  Berbel?" 
Wastei  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper. 

"What?" 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  coat  the  old  wolf  died  in,  and  that  is  the 
reason  it  brings  me  luck." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  "  inquired  his  companion, 
knitting  her  rough  brows. 

"  There  is  a  spot  on  the  collar  —  here."  Wastei  moved  closer 
to  her  and  presented  himself  sideways  to  Berbel  pointing  out 
the  place  with  his  finger.  "  The  Jew  said  it  was  from  a  rusty 
nail,  or  that  it  might  be  an  ink-spot  —  but  he  is  only  a  Jew. 
That  is  not  rust,  nor  ink,  Frau  Berbel.  That  is  the  old  wolf's 
last  blood  —  on  the  right  side,  just  under  the  ear.  He  would 
have  shot  me  for  a  poacher,  if  he  could,  Frau  Berbel.  Well, 
I  have  got  his  coat,  with  his  own  mark  on  it." 

Berbel  shuddered  slightly,  strong  though  she  was.  She  liked 
Wastei,  but  she  had  often  guessed  that  there  was  a  latent 
ferocity  in  him  which  would  come  out  some  day. 

"And  how  could  the  coat  have  come  to  the  Jew's  shop?"  she 
asked,  after  a  pause. 

"You  know  they  had  a  houseful  of  servants,  all  thieves  from 
the  city,  and  they  were  always  getting  new  ones,  instead  of 
keeping  honest  folk  from  the  estate.  The  young  lord  sent  them 
all  away  and  took  his  own  people,  God  bless  him.  But  on  the 
night  when  they  all  died,  the  servants  were  alone  in  the  house, 
before  your  lady  got  over  there,  and  when  she  did,  she  could 
not  do  everything.  I  have  heard  that  they  buried  them  all  in 


314  GKEIFENSTEIST. 

fine  clothes.  Well,  in  the  confusion,  you  may  be  sure  that  one 
of  the  servants  stole  the  coat  with  the  blood  on  it,  and  as  he 
expected  to  stay  in  the  house,  and  could  not  have  worn  it  him 
self,  he  took  it  to  the  Jew  and  sold  it  for  what  he  could  get. 
You  see  it  looks  likely,  because  the  Jew  would  have  waited  at 
least  a  year  before  trying  to  sell  it,  for  fear  of  being  caught." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Berbel  thoughtfully. 

"  I  would  not  have  told  the  story  to  any  one  else,"  observed 
Wastei.  "  But  as  you  know  everything,  you  may  as  well  know 
this  too." 

"  What  ?     Is  there  anything  more  ?  " 

"  Nothing  particular,"  answered  Wastei.  "  Except  that  there 
was  a  hole  in  the  pocket,"  he  added  carelessly.  "  You  see  it 
was  not  quite  new,  or  I  could  not  have  got  it  for  twenty 
marks." 

"So  there  was  a  hole  in  the  pocket,"  said  Berbel.  "Do  you 
want  me  to  mend  it  for  you  ?  " 

"No.  I  think  I  will  leave  it,  for  luck.  Besides  it  is  con 
venient,  if  I  should  want  to  let  anything  slip  through,  between 
the  velvet  and  the  lining." 

"That  is  true,"  observed  Berbel,  watching  him  intently. 

"  A  thing  might  lie  a  long  time  between  the  velvet  and  the 
lining  of  a  coat  in  a  Jew's  shop,"  remarked  Wastei  presently. 

"  Very  long." 

"  Long  enough  for  people  not  to  want  it,  when  it  is  found." 

"  It  depends  on  what  it  is." 

"  A  ticket  for  a  lottery,  for  instance,  would  not  be  of  much 
use  after  a  year  or  two." 

"  Not  much,  as  you  say,"  assented  Berbel,  keeping  her  eye 
upon  him. 

"Or  an  old  letter,  either,"  said  Wastei  with  perfect  in 
difference. 

"  That  depends  on  the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed." 

"  A  live  son  is  better  than  a  dead  father.  A  message  from 
the  dead  wolf  would  not  make  the  christening  of  his  grandson 
any  merrier,  would  it,  Frau  Bei'bel  ?  " 

"  Better  leave  dead  people  alone,"  she  answered,  thoughtfully 
rubbing  the  mole  on  her  chin. 

"  In  God's  peace,"  said  Wastei,  lifting  his  small  hat  from  his 
head.  "  Or  wherever  else  they  may  be,"  he  added,  putting  it 
on  again. 


GKEIFENSTEm.  315 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Berbel  reflected  upon  the 
situation,  and  Wastei  leaned  back  against  the  grey  wall,  watch 
ing  a  hawk  that  was  circling  above  the  distant  crags. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  it  ?  "  asked  Berbel,  at  last. 

"Burn  it,  or  give  it  to  you  —  whichever  you  like." 

"You  have  not  read  it?" 

"It  is  not  the  sign-board  of  an  inn  —  if  it  were,  I  could. 
Besides,  it  is  sealed.  There  is  writing  on  the  back,  and  I  think 
there  is  a  capital  G  among  the  letters.  You  see  there  was  more 
than  the  spot  on  the  collar  to  tell  me  whose  the  coat  was." 

"It  is  true  that  the  baron  always  expected  to  find  a  letter 
from  his  father,"  said  Berbel.  "  It  looks  pi'obable,  this  story 
of  yours." 

"  Do  you  want  the  paper?" 

"  Yes.  I  will  keep  it  in  a  safe  place.  In  ten  years,  when 
there  is  no  more  sorrow  about  the  old  people,  the  baron  may 
like  to  know  that  his  father  thought  of  him." 

"  Better  burn  it,"  suggested  Wastei,  pulling  out  a  match-box, 
and  fumbling  in  his  unfamiliar  pockets  for  the  letter. 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  said  Berbel,  who  knew  that  if  she 
insisted,  he  would  destroy  it  in  spite  of  her.  "  After  all,  Wastei, 
it  is  neither  yours  nor  mine." 

"I  bought  it  with  the  coat.  I  can  burn  it  if  I  like,"  said 
Wastei,  striking  a  match  and  watching  the  white  flame  in  the 
sunshine. 

"  Of  course  you  can,  if  you  like,"  replied  Berbel  unmoved. 

"  Well,  if  you  want  it,  there  it  is,"  he  said,  throwing  away 
the  match  and  handing  her  the  letter.  "Do  not  spoil  the 
christening  with  it,  Frau  Berbel." 

She  took  the  envelope  with  a  great  show  of  indifference  and 
looked  attentively  at  the  superscription. 

"  Is  it  what  I  thought  ?  "  inquired  Wastei. 

"  To  my  son  Greif .     That  is  what  is  written  on  it." 

"  It  is  like  the  old  wolf's  manner,"  said  the  other.  "  He  might 
have  said  Greifenstein  at  least.  But  I  suppose  the  devil  was 
in  a  hurry  and  could  not  wait  for  him  to  write  it  out.  I  am 
sure  I  would  not  have  waited  so  long.  God  greet  you,  Frau 
Berbel." 

Wastei  nodded  and  strode  across  the  sunny  court,  well  satis 
fied  with  himself.  He  had  planned  the  whole  meeting,  with 
the  useless  craftiness  of  a  born  woodman.  Several  days  had 


316  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

elapsed  since  he  had  bought  the  coat  and  found  the  letter  in 
the  lining.  In  spite  of  his  pretended  ignorance  he  could  read 
well  enough  to  make  out  the  address,  and  he  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  Berbel  was  the  person  to  be  trusted.  He  would 
not  for  the  world  have  destroyed  the  precious  missive,  but  he 
was  equally  determined  neither  to  keep  it  himself  nor  to  mar 
the  joy  of  the  Sigmundskrons'  festivities  by  putting  it  into 
Greif's  own  hands.  He  had  known  Berbel  for  many  years  and 
he  was  sure  of  her  discretion.  She  would  keep  it  until  the 
proper  moment  was  come,  and  would  give  it  to  the  right  person 
in  the  end.  But  he  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the  temptation 
of  making  a  profound  mystery  of  the  matter  and  he  prided 
himself  upon  the  effective  way  in  which  he  had  executed  his 
scheme.  Three  words  would  have  sufficed,  but  he  had  passed 
more  than  half  an  hour  very  agreeably  in  Berbel's  company. 
And  Berbel,  little  guessing  the  tremendous  import  of  what  she 
held  in  her  hand,  had  been  interested  by  the  long  story.  It  did 
not  enter  her  mind  that  the  letter  could  be  anything  but  a  word 
of  affectionate  farewell,  at  the  time  Wastei  gave  it  into  her 
keeping.  Intelligent  and  keen  as  she  was,  for  a  woman  of  her 
class,  it  nevertheless  did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  was  putting 
into  her  pocket  the  key  to  the  mystery  of  eighteen  months  ago. 
The  baroness  had  never  spoken  to  her  familiarly  about  the 
tragedy,  and  she  took  it  for  granted  that  the  catastrophe  was 
fully  understood  by  the  survivors,  though  they  chose  to  keep  its 
cause  a  secret  among  themselves.  Hilda  had  indeed  told  her 
that  poor  Greif  had  received  no  message  from  his  father,  but  as 
the  baroness  had  never  mentioned  the  letter  to  Rex,  she  supposed 
that  both  were  in  the  same  position. 

Berbel  carried  the  paper  to  her  own  room  and  put  it  into  a 
strong  wooden  box  with  her  own  most  sacred  belongings,  the  few 
relics  of  her  husband  which  she  possessed,  a  dozen  letters  written 
to  her  during  the  war,  an  old  button  from  his  uniform,  a  faded 
bit  of  ribband  which  had  carried  the  medal  for  the  war  of  1866, 
and  which  she  had  once  replaced  with  a  new  one,  a  pair  of  his 
old  soldier's  gloves  and  a  lock  of  his  hair.  It  was  all  she  had 
left  of  him,  for  he  had  fallen  among  hundreds  and  had  been 
buried  in  the  common  trench.  She  envied  her  mistress  nothing 
in  the  world  except  the  two  swords  and  the  leathern  helmet 
that  had  been  Sigmundskron's  —  poor  woman!  Her  husband 
had  fought  as  bravely  and  had  fallen  on  the  same  honourable 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  317 

field  as  his  master,  but  she  had  nothing  of  his,  but  a  little  hair, 
a  bit  of  ribband,  a  tarnished  button  and  a  pair  of  worn-out 
gloves.  The  rough-browed,  hard-faced  woman  kissed  each  of 
her  poor  relics  in  turn  before  she  closed  the  box,  and  the  tears 
were  in  her  eyes  as  she  hid  the  key  away. 

She  had  not  decided  what  to  do  with  the  letter,  but  on  the 
whole  it  seemed  wiser  not  to  deliver  it  on  that  day.  Indeed  it 
would  be  almost  impossible  to  do  so,  for  any  one  not  abso 
lutely  tactless  and  careless  of  others'  feelings.  Berbel  was  by 
no  means  sure,  however,  whether  she  should  be  justified  in 
keeping  it  more  than  a  few  days.  After  all,  it  might  possibly 
contain  some  message,  or  some  especial  injunction  which  Greif 
ought  to  receive  at  once.  To  keep  such  a  document  concealed 
for  any  length  of  time  would  have  been  wholly  unjustifiable. 
On  the  other  hand  Berbel  was  not  sure  how  such  a  disclosure 
might  effect  Greif.  So  far  as  she  knew,  his  illness  had  been 
caused  by  the  shock  of  his  father's  and  mother's  deaths,  and 
it  could  not  be  foreseen  whether  a  circumstance  which  must 
remind  him  so  vividly  of  that  catastrophe  might  not  cause  a 
return  of  the  malady  which  had  attacked  his  brain.  Berbel 
wished  she  could  consult  some  one  and  get  good  advice  in  the 
matter.  The  wisest  person  in  the  house  was  Rex,  but  for  many 
reasons  she  would  not  go  to  him.  It  was  not  unnatural  that, 
in  her  position,  she  should  distrust  Rex  to  a  certain  extent. 
In  the  first  place  he  was  the  only  member  of  the  household  with 
whom  she  had  not  been  acquainted  for  years,  and  he  was  conse 
quently  the  stranger  in  the  establishment.  Then,  too,  though 
he  was  so  exceedingly  clever,  she  could  not  grow  accustomed  to 
his  eyes,  and  their  expressionless  stare  haunted  her  when  she 
was  alone.  Berbel  did  not  believe  that  a  man  who  looked 
almost  blind  and  nevertheless  saw  so  much  better  than  other 
people  could  be  really  good  and  honest,  since  his  appearance 
itself  was  a  deception.  How  could  a  man  have  eyes  with  no 
pupils  in  them,  and  yet  be  able  to  tell  a  swift  from  a  swallow  as 
well  as  Wastei  himself  and  at  as  great  a  distance  ?  There  was 
evidently  something  wrong  about  Rex,  and  Bevbel  preferred  to 
trust  any  other  member  of  the  household. 

For  the  rest,  there  was  the  baroness  and  there  was  Hilda. 
Either  of  them  would  give  her  good  advice  without  doubt,  but 
it  was  necessary  to  choose  between  them.  Berbel  was  inclined 
to  select  Hilda,  for  she  felt  more  at  her  ease  with  her  than  with 


318  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

Frau  von  Sigmundskron  herself.  Moreover  it  was  natural  to 
imagine  that  Hilda  would  understand  Greif  better  than  any  one 
else,  now  that  they  had  been  married  during  nearly  a  year.  On 
the  other  hand  the  baroness  was  older  and  wiser,  though  not  so 
wise  as  Rex.  The  balance  lay  between  the  sympathy  Berbel 
felt  for  the  one,  and  the  unbounded  respect  she  felt  for  the 
other.  She  had  taken  care  of  Hilda  from  a  child,  and  the  girl 
had  grown  up  feeling  that  Berbel  was  more  a  friend  than  a  ser 
vant,  as  indeed  she  was ;  whereas  the  baroness,  though  sincerely 
attached  to  the  good  creature  to  whom  she  owed  so  much,  and 
although  overflowing  with  kindness  towards  her,  could  not  get 
rid  of  the  idea  of  all  distinctions  so  far  as  to  talk  intimately 
with  her  upon  family  matters.  This  consideration,  of  which 
Berbel  was  well  aware,  ultimately  turned  the  scale,  and  she 
determined  to  go  to  Hilda  with  the  letter,  while  regretting  that 
a  lingering  distrust  of  Rex's  character  prevented  her  from  ap 
pealing  to  his  fabulous  wisdom. 

The  christening  was  a  very  grand  ceremony,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  village  folk,  and  everything  was  done  in  the  most  approved 
fashion.  It  not  being  the  custom  in  Germany  to  baptize  chil 
dren  as  soon  as  they  are  born,  and  as  the  anniversary  of  the 
wedding  was  not  far  distant,  it  was  agreed  to  choose  that  day 
for  giving  a  name  to  the  heir  of  Sigmundskron. 

"  Call  him  Greif,"  said  the  baroness,  "  after  his  father." 

"  Call  him  Kraft,  for  his  grandfather,"  said  Berbel  to  Hilda, 
when  they  were  alone. 

"  He  has  bright  eyes,"  said  Greif.     "  He  shall  be  Sigmund." 

And  Sigmund  he  was  called.  Rex  said  nothing  at  first  and 
could  not  be  induced  to  give  any  opinion  in  the  matter,  though 
he  strongly  supported  Greif's  suggestion  after  it  was  once  made. 

Rex  was  thinking  and  his  thoughts  were  very  much  confused. 
He  would  have  greatly  preferred  to  spend  the  festal  day  in  soli 
tude,  but  this  was  not  possible,  and  he  did  his  best  to  join  in 
the  rejoicings  with  a  glad  face.  His  efforts  were  successful, 
and  he  made  a  speech  at  the  family  dinner,  half  jesting,  half  in 
earnest,  as  he  proposed  Hilda's  health,  and  the  child's. 

"  I  am  much  more  accustomed  to  speaking  in  public  than  you 
would  imagine,"  he  said,  "  for  I  have  often  made  long  speeches 
among  students,  of  which  the  beginning  was  beer,  the  middle 
beer  and  the  end  more  beer.  For  that  matter,  Greif  has  done 


GREIFENSTEIN.  319 

the  same,  and  I  have  been  among  those  who  applauded  his  elo 
quence.  This,  however,  is  a  very  different  affair  —  as  you  will 
no  doubt  perceive.  For,  instead  of  students,  I  have  two  noble 
dames  and  a  philistine  for  my  audience,  and  instead  of  beer  and 
Alma  Mater,  I  have  for  a  subject  the  beauty,  the  virtues  and 
the  deeds  of  Sigmund  von  Sigmundskron  and  of  his  own  espe 
cial  alma  mater,  his  dear  mother.  I  must  trust  to  her,  in  the 
unavoidable  absence  of  Baron  Sigmund,  due  to  a  tendency  to 
sleep,  superinduced  by  baptism  and  other  things,  to  convey  to 
him  the  substance  of  my  words.  Nearly  a  thousand  years  ago, 
if  there  be  any  truth  in  history,  Sigmund  the  Bright-eyed  came 
hither  with  his  men  and  built  this  hall,  in  which  we  are  now  to 
drink  the  health  of  another  bright-eyed  Sigmund.  In  this  very 
place,  perhaps  upon  this  very  spot,  he  feasted  and  wassailed 
with  his  warriors,  and  drained  his  horn  to  the  future  glories  of 
his  name.  His  grand  old  spirit  is  with  us  to-night,  rejoicing  as 
we  rejoice,  quaffing  the  brown  Walhalla-brew  while  we  sip  the 
nectar  of  the  Rhine  Nixies.  For  many  a  long  year  he  has  sat 
gloomy  and  mournful  and  full  of  sadness  before  his  untasted 
horn,  watching  with  his  wonderful  eyes  the  single  silken  thread 
that  bore  all  the  fate  of  his  race,  hoping  and  not  daring  to  hope, 
fearing  and  refusing  to  fear  —  he  who  dared  all  things  and 
feared  nothing." 

Rex  paused  a  moment  and  his  colour  changed  a  little.  There 
was  a  ring  of  deepest  emotion  in  his  voice  when  he  continued. 

"  The  thread  has  not  been  broken,"  he  said.  "  The  strain 
was  fearful  and  the  danger  greater  than  can  be  told.  One  of 
the  silken  strands  parted,  the  other  has  borne  the  weight  that 
was  meant  for  both.  One  of  the  two  beings,  in  whom  ran  that 
good  and  true  blood,  was  taken  —  in  glory;  the  other  is  left  — 
to  be,  in  peace,  the  mother  of  many  a  brave  Sigmund  yet  un 
born,  the  mother,  first,  of  him  to  whom  we  have  given  to-day 
the  spotless  name  his  fathers  bore." 

He  paused  again  and  lifted  high  the  great  beaker  of  old  Rhine 
wine. 

"  She  —  our  dear  Hilda,  can  neither  guess  nor  know  the  love 
we  bear  her,"  he  said,  and  suddenly  the  fire  that  was  so  rarely 
seen  flashed  in  his  eyes.  "  But  she  shall  know  it  and  feel  it, 
one  day,  in  the  love  we  shall  bear  her  son.  Drink,  all  of  you 
the  best  health  the  world  holds !  Drink  to  Hilda  and  to  Sig- 


320  GRETFENSTEIN. 

mund  the  younger,  drink  to  the  great  spirit  of  the  first  Sigmund, 
and  to  all  his  glorious  line  for  ever  !  Drink  to  the  hope  that,  as 
a  thousand  years  ago  he  drank  to  Hilda,  so  we  may  be  draining 
this  health  to  a  son  of  Hilda's  who  may  sit  here  a  thousand  years 
from  to-day !  To  Hilda !  To  Sigmund !  Hoch,  Sigmundskron, 
Hoch !  " 

The  four  voices  rang  together,  even  the  baroness  joining  in 
the  cheer.  Rex  and  Greif  drained  their  glasses  to  the  last  drop, 
and  each  tapped  the  rim  upon  his  nail;  then,  with  one  accord, 
as  though  to  carry  out  the  ancient  custom  to  its  barbaric  com 
pleteness,  both  dashed  their  beakers  against  the  opposite  wall, 
so  that  they  were  shivered  into  a  thousand  splinters.  It  is  a 
strange  old  manner,  and  the  purpose  of  it  is  that  a  glass  hon 
oured  by  a  noble  and  solemn  health,  may  never  be  defiled  by 
ordinary  use  again. 

Rex  sat  down  in  his  place  and  did  not  speak  for  some  time. 
He  was  overcome  by  an  emotion  altogether  beyond  his  own 
comprehension.  Unconsciously,  in  proposing  the  health,  he  had 
identified  himself  altogether  with  the  race  of  which  he  spoke, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  had  lost  himself  in  the  excite 
ment  of  the  moment.  He  tried  to  recall  what  he  had  said,  but 
his  heart  was  beating  so  fast  that  he  could  hardly  think.  He 
had  not  meant  to  say  much,  he  had  assuredly  not  prepared  the 
little  speech,  and  he  had  most  certainly  not  expected  to  be  carried 
away  by  his  own  words.  Hitherto,  when  he  had  been  obliged 
to  speak  of  anything  with  a  certain  degree  of  feeling,  out  of 
regard  for  others,  he  had  been  conscious  of  coldly  picking  and 
choosing  his  expressions  to  suit  the  sentiment  he  was  supposed 
to  entertain.  He  had  thought  he  could  do  the  same  now ;  he 
had  begun  with  a  trivial  jest  about  student  life ;  he  had  been 
enticed  into  a  bit  of  rhetoric  about  old  Sigmund ;  he  had  for 
gotten  himself  altogether  when  he  spoke  of  Hilda ;  and  he  had 
ended  in  a  sort  of  burst  of  enthusiasm  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  hot-headed  boy  of  twenty.  He  was  altogether  uncon 
scious  as  to  whether  his  hearers  had  been  pleased  or  not. 

The  baroness,  whose  feeling  about  Sigmundskron  almost 
amounted  to  a  religious  fervour,  sat  quite  still  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  then  dried  her  eyes  cautiously  as  though  she  were  afraid  of 
being  noticed.  Hilda  looked  at  Rex,  wondering  what  the  real 
nature  of  the  strange  man  might  be,  pleased  by  what  he  had 


GBEIFENSTEIN.  32l 

said  and  yet  surprised  that  he  should  have  said  so  much.  Rex 
met  her  fixed  gaze  and  turned  his  head  away  instantly.  Greif 
took  a  fresh  glass. 

"  Your  health,  my  dear  Rex,"  he  said.  He  always  called  him 
Rex  from  old  habit. 

"  Your  health,  dear  cousin  Horst !  "  exclaimed  Hilda. 

Rex  started,  and  took  the  beaker  nearest  to  him. 

"I  drink  to  Hilda's  mother,"  he  said  in  an  odd  voice.  He 
looked  towards  Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  but  in  her  place  there 
seemed  to  sit  another  woman,  one  so  like  Hilda's  self  that  no 
human  eye  could  have  detected  a  point  in  which  the  one  did  not 
resemble  the  other.  He  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips.  It  was 
empty,  and  his  lips  met  only  the  air. 

"  Fill  before  drinking  !  "  laughed  Greif .. 

Rex's  hand  trembled,  as  he  set  down  the  goblet.  The  mis 
take  was  rectified  in  an  instant  and  Rex  drank  the  baroness's 
health.  This  time  as  he  looked  at  her,  he  saw  her  white  hair 
and  delicate  thin  face  in  all  their  reality.  The  shadow  was  gone. 
He  had  pledged  its  emptiness  in  an  empty  glass. 

That  night  his  light  burned  late,  and  the  owls,  if  they  had 
looked,  might  have  seen  his  shadow  pass  and  repass  many  hun 
dreds  of  times  behind  the  curtain  of  the  open  window.  Hour 
after  hour  he  paced  his  lonely  room,  asking  himself  the  meaning 
of  what  was  happening  in  his  brain.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  suffering  from  an  extraordinary  hallucination,  which  he 
had  indulged  until  it  had  taken  possession  of  his  whole  being. 
Again  and  again  he  went  back  to  the  first  beginnings  of  his 
fancy,  recalling  the  time  when  he  had  begun  to  construct  out 
of  nothing  a  love  for  himself  in  the  past,  imagining  for  Hilda 
an  imaginary  mother,  who  should  have  been  his  own  imaginary 
wife.  He  cursed  the  puerility  of  the  thought,  and  yet  returned 
to  it  again  and  again  in  search  of  the  sweet,  sad  peace  he  had 
so  often  found  in  his  fancied  memories.  But  that  was  gone. 
The  scenes  he  had  created  grew  dull  and  lost  their  colour,  he 
forgot  the  very  points  which  had  most  pleased  him  once.  And 
yet  he  was  conscious  of  acute  suffering.  It  was  but  a  few  hours 
since  he  had  lifted  that  empty  goblet  to  his  lips,  and  had  seen 
distinctly  before  him  the  shadow  he  loved  so  well.  How  was  it 
possible?  There  was  a  chair  —  he  had  lifted  his  hand  thus  — 
and  she  had  been  there.  Suddenly  his  arm  was  arrested  in  the 


322  GREIFENSTEIN. 

very  act  of  the  gesture,  he  grew  icy  cold,  and  his  stony  eyes  set 
themselves  in  a  horrified  stare.  A  cry  of  despair  burst  from  his 
lips. 

"  Great  God  in  Heaven  —  I  love  Hilda ! " 

That  was  all,  and  there  was  silence  in  the  lonely  chamber  for 
many  hours. 


GllEIFENSTEIN.  323 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

DAY  had  dawned  when  Rex  staggered  to  his  feet,  scarcely 
conscious  of  where  he  was,  nor  of  what  had  happened,  knowing 
only  that  he  had  spent  many  hours  in  utmost  agony.  The  sight 
of  the  familiar  objects  in  the  room  recalled  the  whole  train  of 
thought  which  had  preceded  the  shock  he  had  received.  Slowly 
and  painfully  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down  as  he  had  done 
during  the  night.  It  was  not  possible  for  his  strong  nature  to 
remain  for  any  great  length  of  time  in  a  state  of  stupor,  nor  was 
there  any  danger  of  his  being  again  affected  as  he  had  been  at 
first.  After  a  little  while  he  grew  calm  and  collected,  and  he 
realised  that  something  must  be  done  immediately. 

He  had  found  the  key  to  all  his  vain  imaginings,  to  all  his 
varied  moods,  to  the  strange  disturbance  of  his  faculties  in 
Hilda's  presence.  He  loved  his  brother's  wife,  and  he  knew  it. 
He  sought  for  a  remedy,  as  though  he  had  been  assailed  by  the 
plague. 

There  was  a  medicine  close  by,  in  the  drawer  of  his  desk, 
which  would  cure  love  or  anything  else.  He  knew  that.  It 
would  be  the  affair  of  a  moment,  the  pulling  of  a  trigger,  an 
explosion  he  should  scarcely  hear,  and  there  would  be  no  more 
Hex.  The  temptation  was  strong,  and  moreover  there  was  a 
tendency  in  his  nature  towards  suicide  which  he  knew  was 
inherited.  It  would  be  a  fitting  end  to  the  useless  life  he  had 
led,  the  son  of  such  a  father  and  of  such  a  mother.  No  one 
would  guess  why  he  was  dead,  and  it  would  be  soon  done. 
Then  indeed  there  would  be  no  trace  left  of  the  old  times 
before  the  tragedy  of  Greifenstein.  It  would  be  the  last  page 
in  the  history,  as  he  himself  was  the  last  survivor,  except  Greif, 
and  Greif  had  a  right  to  be  happy. 

A  right  —  and  why  ?  What  had  Greif  done  to  deserve  Hilda 
more  than  Rex?  He  was  younger,  handsomer,  and  more  fort 
unate.  That  was  the  point.  Greif's  luck  had  saved  him,  and 
what  was  life  to  him  was  death  to  Rex.  It  was  pure  good  fort- 


824  GREIFENSTEHsT. 

une.  There  had  not  been  a  struggle  or  the  least  desire  for  one. 
Rex  himself  had  done  everything  in  his  power  to  push  on  the 
marriage,  and  could  blame  no  one  for  the  result.  Greif  was 
happy  and  Ilex  was  broken-heai'ted.  If  Greif  had  refused  to 
marry  Hilda,  Rex  might  perhaps  have  won  her,  supplying  by 
his  own  wealth  the  fortune  which  should  have  been  hers  through 
Greif 's  ruin. 

Luck  indeed!  There  was  Greif,  nameless  and  penniless  in 
reality,  but  unconscious  of  the  awful  misfortunes  he  had  escaped, 
delivered  from  the  borrowed  name  that  was  stained,  and  in 
vested  with  one  more  noble  and  spotless  than  the  other  had 
ever  been,  lord  of  Sigmundskron,  husband  of  Hilda,  father  of 
a  new  race.  What  more  could  the  heart  of  man  desire? 
That  was  what  Greif  appeared  to  be,  and  was,  so  far  as  he 
himself  was  aware.  And  this  —  Rex  drew  from  a  secret  place 
his  father's  last  letter  —  this  was  the  real  Greif  whom  none 
knew  but  Rex. 

He  read  the  words  cai'efully  many  times.  Then  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  gazed  long  through  the  open  window  at 
the  distant  forest.  At  last  he  rose  and  lit  a  candle.  It  might 
be  best  that  he  should  die  now,  but  if  so,  this  secret  must  die 
with  him.  lie  had  only  preserved  the  writing  in  case  Greif 
refused  to  marry  Hilda,  and  now  they  were  not  only  married, 
but  there  was  an  heir  born  to  them.  He  held  the  letter  in  the 
rnidst  of  the  flame,  and  then  the  envelope  till  both  were  con 
sumed  to  ashes,  and  the  summer  breeze  that  blew  into  the 
room  wafted  the  black  remains,  light  as  threads  of  gossamer, 
from  the  table  to  the  floor,  and  away  into  dark  corners  to 
crumble  into  dust. 

No  one  could  ever  guess  the  secret  now,  thought  Rex,  not 
dreaming  that  by  a  strange  train  of  circumstances  another  letter 
had  been  stored  away  beneath  the  same  roof  but  yesterday  in 
the  safe  keeping  of  honest  Berbel.  Greif  was  safe,  thought 
Rex,  as  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  drawer  again,  to  take  the 
other  thing  from  its  place.  He,  Rex,  would  leave  no  tell-tale 
letters  behind.  It  should  be  sharp,  short,  complete  and  decisive. 
There  would  be  some  regrets  for  the  lonely  man  who  was  gone, 
and  they  would  never  dream  how  he  had  purchased  their 
security  with  his  life.  He  laid  the  weapon  upon  the  table 
before  him. 

Their  security?    Surely,  that  was  but  a  theatrical  phrase, 


GREIFENSTEIK.  325 

with  no  meaning,  spoken  to  make  his  miserable  death  seem 
grand,  or  at  least  worthy.  Security  implied  danger,  and  what 
danger  could  his  wretched  life  bring  to  Hilda  or  her  husband? 
The  thought  that  Hilda  could  ever  love  him  was  monstrous,  the 
suggestion  that  he  could  ever  speak  loving  words  to  her  he 
loved,  since  he  knew  who  she  was,  stung  him  like  a  blow  on  the 
mouth.  That  splendid  angel  could  no  more  stoop  from  her 
superb  purity,  than  he,  Hex,  could  have  flung  a  handful  of  mud 
in  her  divine  face  —  no  more  than  he  could  have  entertained  for 
one  horrible  instant  the  thought  of  sullying  what  God  had  made 
so  white.  He  had  a  bitter  scorn  of  that  word  security,  so  soon 
as  it  had  flashed  unspoken  through  his  mind ;  he  cursed  his 
own  soul  for  the  contemptible  thought.  And  in  his  self-abase 
ment,  he  was  heroic,  unconsciously,  as  heroes  are.  He  was  to 
die,  but  it  was  for  honour's  sake,  and  not  for  any  foul  wrong 
done  to  man  or  woman. 

He  could  say  that,  with  a  clear  conscience.  From  the  moment 
when  he  had  felt  the  truth,  and  had  known  that  he  loved  his 
brother's  wife,  he  had  been  tortured  almost  past  endurance. 
Not  one  sweet  thought  of  Hilda  had  entered  his  heart,  there 
was  nothing  there  but  the  stabbing  pain  of  his  own  folly,  and 
the  searing  consciousness  that  his  folly  had  ended  in  the  most 
appalling  of  all  truths.  There  was  nothing  in  his  mind  but  a 
relentless  hatred  of  himself,  a  stunning  and  sudden  comprehen 
sion  of  what  he  had  allowed  himself  to  dream.  Even,  if  there 
had  been  no  other  reason,  he  deserved  to  die,  he  judged  himself 
worthy  of  death.  It  was  for  honour's  sake  — -  how  could  he  live 
and  face  them  all,  knowing  what  he  was,  even  if  they  did  not 
know  ?  There  must  be  an  end,  and  there  could  be  but  one  end 
to  his  sufferings.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  drew  the  weapon 
into  his  grasp. 

What  was  honour,  that  he  should  die  for  it  ?  He  had  believed 
in  very  little  beyond  himself  during  forty  years,  but  he  believed 
in  honour  and  had  been  reckoned  a  most  honourable  man  among 
those  who  had  known  him.  He  had  risked  his  life  for  it  many 
a  time,  but  now,  for  its  sake,  he  was  to  take  his  own  life  with 
out  risk,  deliberately,  as  he  would  have  shot  a  wild  beast,  as  he 
would  have  crushed  a  poisonous  reptile  under  his  heel.  What 
was  this  thing  ?  Was  it  a  fact,  a  shadow,  an  idea,  a  breath,  a 
god  or  a  devil?  What  was  it,  for  which  such  deeds  had  been 
done,  for  which  old  Greifenstein  and  Rieseneck  had  slain  his 


326  GREIFENSTEIN. 

mother  and  laid  down  their  lives  in  such  stern  haste  ?  A  man 
might  well  ask  what  he  was  to  die  for,  thought  Rex.  Why  did 
it  seem  base  in  him  to  live,  even  though  every  moment  of  his 
existence  "were  to  be  spent  in  rooting  out  what  he  so  hated,  in 
burning  out  what  had  defiled  his  soul;  and  why  did  it  seem 
noble  and  brave  to  die  ?  To  die  was  easy  as  drawing  a  breath, 
to  live  was  a  hard  and  fearful  thing.  Yet  honour  said,  Die  and 
be  satisfied  that  you  are  doing  right.  Did  honour  always  com 
mand  what  was  easiest  for  a  man  to  do?  Again,  what  was  it? 
He  had  but  a  few  moments  left  to  live,  and  in  a  lifetime  he  had 
served  honour  scrupulously.  What  if  it  were  but  a  myth,  but 
a  legend  of  fools,  a  destroying  idol  worshipped  by  brave  and 
brainless  visionaries,  who  had  more  courage  than  intelligence, 
more  desire  to  do  right  than  discernment  to  sift  right  from 
wrong?  Pity  that  so  many  daring,  honest  men  should  have 
been  spitted  on  rapiers,  cloven  with  sabres,  riddled  with  bullet- 
holes,  for  the  sake  of  a  vain  breath,  emptier  than  the  glass  he 
had  raised  to  his  lips  last  night!  And  yet  — he  might  search, 
and  deny,  and  argue,  and  scoff  —  honour  remained  a  fact.  No, 
not  a  fact,  a  law.  A  law  having  rules,  and  conditions  and  pen 
alties  and  rewards  all  defined  in  the  human  heart,  all  equally 
beyond  the  range  of  the  human  intelligence.  His  brain  could 
not  imagine  a  question  in  which  honour  was  concerned,  to  which 
his  heart  did  not  give  the  right  answer  instantaneously,  quicker 
than  the  brain  itself  could  have  solved  the  problem.  And  what 
the  heart  told  him  was  right,  indubitably  and  indisputably  right. 
Then  he  was  to  die  for  something  he  felt  but  could  not  under 
stand,  for  the  decision  of  some  power  within  him,  wiser  and 
swifter  and  surer  than  the  cool  head  to  which  he  had  trusted  so 
long.  To  call  that  power  the  heart  was  nonsense,  as  absurd  as 
to  call  it  a  function  of  the  brain.  It  was  distinct  from  both,  it 
had  a  being  of  its  own,  independent,  dominating,  tremendous 
in  its  effects.  In  danger  the  head  said,  stop ;  the  heart  said,  go 
on.  And  honour,  then,  was  the  spontaneous  reasoning  of  this 
superior  power,  whatever  it  might  be.  But,  if  it  reasoned,  so 
unfailingly  and  so  surely  about  some  things,  why  had  it  nothing 
to  say  about  others  ?  Why  could  this  faultless  judge  decide  of 
nothing  save  right  and  wrong  ?  From  habit,  doubtless,  because 
we  refer  no  other  questions  to  him.  No,  for  when  we  ask  a 
question  of  ourselves,  or  when  one  is  asked  of  us  by  another,  we 
do  not  always  know  beforehand  which  part  of  ourselves  will 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  327 

answer.  Mystery  of  mysteries,  to  be  solved  only  by  assuming 
that  man  has  an  immortal  soul.  Idle  waste  of  time,  thought 
Rex,  looking  at  the  cartridge  in  his  revolver  and  then  slowly 
setting  back  the  hammer.  An  idle  waste  of  time,  to  think  of 
such  matters.  Honour  or  no  honour,  heart  or  no  heart,  the 
mysterious  power  within  him  bade  him  die.  Die,  then,  and  be 
done  with  it.  He  held  the  weapon  in  his  hand,  ready  to  do  the 
deed.  One  second,  and  all  would  be  over.  At  one  end  of  that 
polished  dark  blue  barrel  was  life,  with  all  its  dishonour,  with 
all  its  sufferings,  with  all  the  monstrous  blackness  of  evil  it 
held,  the  life  of  an  honest  man  who  loved  his  brother's  wife  in 
spite  of  himself,  and  loathed  the  thought.  At  the  other  end  was 
death,  swift,  sharp,  sure,  the  answer  to  all  questions,  the  solu 
tion  of  all  ills,  the  medicine  for  all  earthly  woe.  Rex  laid  the 
revolver  down,  and  drew  back  a  little  from  the  table. 

Was  it  possible  that  he  was  killing  himself  merely  to  escape 
suffering,  to  rid  himself  of  pain,  to  desist  from  a  contest  too 
bitter  for  his  endurance?  If  that  were  it,  Rex  was  a  miserable 
coward,  and  not  the  honourable  man  he  had  thought  himself. 
With  the  instinct  that  prompts  many  men  to  do  the  same  at 
such  moments,  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  went  to  the  mirror. 
He  started  when  he  saw  himself  in  it.  It  was  as  though  the 
marvellous  look  of  youth  that  had  clung  to  him  so  long,  had 
fallen  from  his  face,  and  left  an  old  man's  features  behind. 
His  skin  was  livid,  his  eyes  were  sunken,  the  flesh  was  drawn 
and  white  about  his  nostrils  and  brows  and  temples.  His  hair 
and  beard,  matted  with  cold  sweat,  hung  in  wild  disorder  about 
his  head  and  face.  It  was  strange  that  the  bright  summer's 
morning  should  even  seem  to  change  their  colour  —  or  was  it  a 
defect  in  the  glass  ?  He  looked  nearer,  and  he  scarcely  dared 
to  believe  his  eyes.  There  were  grey  hairs,  whole  locks  of 
grey,  in  the  soft  brown  masses.  He  had  heard  of  such  quick 
changes  but  had  never  believed  them  real.  He  gazed  in  silence 
at  the  reflexion  of  himself  for  some  minutes. 

"  I  am  an  old  man,"  he  said  softly,  and  turned  away,  for 
getting  what  he  had  come  to  see  —  whether  he  were  a  coward 
or  not. 

He  went  back  to  the  table  and  sat  down,  supporting  his  head 
in  his  two  hands.  He  realised  what  he  had  suffered,  and  the 
question  returned  to  his  agonised  brain.  Was  he  killing  him 
self  to  escape  torture,  or  out  of  his  love  of  honour  ?  He  won- 


328  GREIFENSTEIN. 

dered  bitterly  whether  any  pain  could  be  worse  in  the  future 
than  what  he  had  borne  during  this  night,  and  during  the  hours 
since  the  dawn  had  broken  in  upon  him.  It  seemed  impossible. 
Then  on  a  sudden,  the  bright  image  of  Hilda  burst  upon  his  sight 
as  he  pressed  his  closed  lids  with  the  palms  of  his  hands.  Hilda 
was  there  before  him  in  all  her  splendour,  he  could  see  every  line 
of  her  face,  every  shade  of  its  glorious  colouring,  every  twist  of 
her  yellow  hair.  The  light  streamed  upon  him  from  the  whole 
vision,  and  he  was  looking  into  the  bright  depths  of  her  eyes. 
It  was  exquisite  delight,  and  yet  he  felt  overwhelmed  with 
shame  that  he  should  dare  to  look  and  love.  It  was  like  him  to 
fight  to  the  utmost.  With  a  supreme  effort  he  opened  his  eyes, 
and  suffered  himself  to  be  dazzled  by  the  violent  daylight.  The 
vision  was  gone,  but  he  understood  what  he  must  bear,  without 
a  sign  of  pain,  if  he  were  to  look  upon  the  reality.  And  yet  he 
knew  his  own  strength.  Face  to  face  with  Hilda  he  could  have 
forced  his  stony  eyes  to  dulness  arid  his  features  to  an  indiffer 
ent  calm.  He  could  do  that  and  not  fail.  The  clear  memory 
of  her  he  had  received  in  that  moment  told  him  how  much  he 
was  able  to  resist,  but  showed  him  also  what  resistance  would 
cost ;  above  all  it  had  exhibited  to  him  in  all  beauty  and  clear 
ness  of  detail  that  upon  which  he  was  never  to  look  again.  The 
pain  had  been  sharp  and  quick,  and  was  scarcely  distinguished 
from  the  momentary,  involuntary  happiness.  But  he  could  bear 
it,  and  worse.  It  was  not  to  escape  it  that  he  had  determined 
to  end  his  life.  Nor  would  he  do  the  fatal  deed  if  he  were  sure 
that  he  were  impelled  to  it  merely  in  the  hope  of  escaping  a  little 
suffering,  or  much.  Whatever  his  faults  might  be,  he  was  brave 
still;  braver  now,  perhaps,  than  he  had  ever  been.  There  had 
been  a  time  when  all  human  action,  or  inaction,  had  seemed  to 
him  so  indifferent  in  itself  and  in  its  consequences,  that  he 
had  almost  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  contrasting  courage  with 
cowardice.  But  he  had  not  then  been  put  to  the  test  as  he 
was  now. 

It  was  not  the  fear  of  what  he  must  bear  that  drove  him  from 
existence.  He  was  sure  of  that.  He  resolutely  set  himself  to 
think  of  what  life  would  be  in  the  future,  if  he  chose  it,  and 
if  he  stayed  where  he  was.  It  was  clear  that  he  could  live,  if 
he  pleased,  and  meet  Hilda,  and  Greif,  and  Hilda's  mother,  and 
keep  a  calm  face  and  a  steady  voice  when  he  was  with  them. 
If  it  were  a  question  of  courage,  that  would  be  the  least  coura- 


GREIFENSTEIN.  329 

geous  course.  It  would  be  easier  to  suffer  anything  than  to  put 
himself  beyond  the  possibility  of  ever  seeing  Hilda  again.  He 
owned,  in  bitter  self-contempt,  that  this  was  absolutely  true. 
The  sting  of  death  was  there,  in  the  choice  of  total  extinction, 
in  the  act  of  leaving  all  that  he  loved,  as  well  as  in  the  extermi 
nation  of  that  self  which  held  the  power  to  love.  But  for 
one  thought,  life  would  still  be  sweet.  All  the  torment  of  an 
existence  made  dreadful  by  the  hopelessness  of  an  unquenchable 
passion  would  be  nothing,  as  compared  with  the  hourly  joy  of 
seeing  Hilda  and  of  hearing  her  voice.  That  would  compensate 
for  all  things,  no  matter  how  horrible,  except  one  ;  but  that  one 
outweighed  the  rest.  The  certainty  that  his  whole  life  here 
after  must  be  one  long  act  of  treachery  to  Greif  must  overbal 
ance  everything  else. 

That  was  the  point  of  honour  he  had  sought  to  explain.  He 
thought  he  had  been  mistaken,  and  that  his  self-hatred  and 
self-contempt  had  really  but  little  to  do  with  his  decision.  It 
was  neither  for  his  own  sake,  nor  for  Hilda's  that  he  must  leave 
the  world  so  suddenly,  but  for  Greif's.  Greif  was  his  trusted 
friend,  Greif  was  his  cousin,  Greif  was  his  brother.  To  feel 
what  he  felt  for  that  brother's  wife  was  treachery,  no  matter 
how  he  should  hide  his  feelings  or  fight  against  them.  The 
time  would  assuredly  come  when  he  must  hate  this  man,  as  he 
now  loved  him,  and  his  jealousy  would  take  some  active  shape, 
and  do  Greif  some  real  injury.  At  any  cost,  such  a  catastrophe 
must  be  warded  off.  To  leave  the  two  in  their  happiness  and 
to  go  away,  plunging  again  into  the  old  existence  he  hated, 
would  be  of  no  avail.  Rex  knew  human  nature  well,  and  was 
wise  enough  to  include  himself  in  what  he  knew.  He  was  sure 
that,  sooner  or  later,  his  resolution  to  keep  away  from  Sigmund- 
skron  would  break  down,  as  much  through  the  insistence  of 
Greif  and  Hilda,  as  on  account  of  his  own  inclinations.  Here, 
too,  the  humanity  of  the  man  showed  itself,  as  well  as  the 
weakest  points  in  his  self-knowledge  and  reasoning.  Rex  might 
and  could  have  left  Sigmundskron  then,  and  his  courage  would 
assuredly  have  kept  him  away  longer  than  he  suspected,  even 
long  enough,  perhaps,  to  cool  the  heat  of  his  passion  and  make 
his  return  both  possible  and  safe.  Had  he  been  called  upon  to 
decide  the  case  for  another  he  would  in  all  probability  have 
advised  such  a  course,  for  he  would  then  have  taken  into  con 
sideration  the  value  of  life  as  a  factor  in  the  question.  But,  for 


330  GREIFENSTEIN. 

his  own  part,  he  held  his  existence  as  of  little  worth,  and  it 
would  not  have  needed  half  of  what  he  now  suffered  to  prompt 
him  to  part  with  it.  At  any  time  during  the  last  ten  years,  a 
severe  shock  to  his  feelings,  or  a  fit  of  unconquerable  melan 
choly,  would  have  been  enough  to  suggest  to  him  the  advisa 
bility  of  making  a  precipitate  exit  from  the  stage  on  which  he 
found  himself.  Death  had  long  possessed  attractions  for  him, 
and  it  was  long  since  life  had  offered  him  anything  for  the  enjoy 
ment  of  which  he  would  have  taken  the  trouble  to  undergo  any 
annoyance  whatsoever.  Life  seemed  to  him  such  a  very  trivial 
matter  that  he  felt  no  hesitation  in  abandoning  it,  and  he  only 
put  off  the  doing  so  for  a  few  minutes  now,  out  of  curiosity  to 
understand  more  fully  the  motives  of  his  action. 

It  was  so  very  simple  to  pull  the  trigger  of  a  pistol,  and  so 
very  complicated  to  begin  a  new  existence,  just  when  he  had 
believed  that  his  wanderings  were  over.  The  future  was  inex 
pressibly  dismal,  lonely  and  painful,  and  death  was  such  a 
natural  and  easy  escape  from  it.  These  reflexions  were  as 
suredly  present,  unknown  to  himself,  in  the  midst  of  the  many 
thoughts  that  crowded  his  brain  in  that  supreme  hour,  and  they 
must  have  influenced  him  in  forming  his  ultimate  decision, 
though  he  did  not  guess  that  they  were  at  work.  He  saw  only 
the  alternative  possibilities  of  an  ignoble  life  or  of  an  honourable 
death,  and  he  chose  the  more  pleasant,  the  easier,  the  quicker. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  it  would  be  done,  and  here  would  be 
no  more  Rex.  Those  left  behind  would  think  kindly  of  him ; 
they  would  suppose  he  had  been  mad,  and  in  due  time  they 
would  congratulate  themselves  that  he  had  not  lived  to  be  a 
burthen  to  them. 

Ilex  had  not  any  great  belief  in  human  sympathy,  nor  in  the 
regret  people  felt  for  the  dead.  The  fact  that  he  could  not  place 
credence  in  the  existence  of  a  future  life  could  be  traced  to  his 
indifference  about  the  present,  and  in  its  turn  made  him  scepti 
cal  concerning  the  beliefs  of  others.  Protestations  of  friendship 
or  affection  could  mean  but  little  to  a  man  who  had  scarcely 
ever  expressed  either,  except  from  a  desire  not  to  seem  brutal 
or  unfeeling.  It  was  true  that  he  was  profoundly  attached  to 
Greif,  but  his  instinct  told  him  that  his  attachment  was  only 
half  reciprocated.  He  loved  Hilda  in  a  way  of  his  own,  as  men 
have  seldom  loved,  but  he  knew  that  Hilda's  thoughts  of  him 
did  not  go  farther  than  a  vague  half-friendly,  half-cousinly 


GREIFENSTEIN.  331 

regard.  It  was  not  likely  that  he  should  expect  of  either  a 
passionate  grief  over  his  end,  or  any  exaggerated  mourning  for 
his  death.  The  idea  that  the  fact  of  the  suicide,  independently 
of  his  own  personality,  would  add  a  deeper  shadow  to  the  mem 
ories  of  Greifenstein  troubled  him  very  little.  He  had  seen  how 
Greif  had  forgotten  the  horror  of  the  tragedy  in  his  love  of 
Hilda,  and  since  Hilda  would  still  be  at  hand,  she  would  help 
him  to  forget  this  also.  With  the  coolness  of  a  man  of  his  age, 
he  calculated  the  extent  of  Greif 's  possible  distress  and  reckoned 
it  insignificant.  With  the  generosity  of  his  exceptional  nature, 
he  admitted  that  his  fondness  for  his  brother  did  not  depend 
upon  any  principle  of  reciprocity.  If  he  had  chosen,  eighteen 
months  earlier,  to  remain  alive  instead  of  following  the  example 
of  his  unhappy  father,  it  had  been  for  Greif's  sake  that  he  had 
lived,  though  Greif  had  never  known  it ;  if  now,  knowing  the 
thing  that  was  in  his  heart,  he  chose  to  die,  it  was  for  Greif's 
sake  still. 

He  was  glad  that  he  was  not  doing  such  a  deed  merely  to 
escape  suffering  himself.  The  thought  would  have  stayed  his 
hand,  preserving  him  to  undergo  the  most  terrible  ordeal  he 
could  imagine ;  whereas,  in  its  absence  he  could  spare  himself 
that,  at  least,  without  a  pang,  while  ridding  Greif  of  the  pres 
ence  of  a  traitor. 

The  word  was  too  strong,  but  Rex  could  not  see  that  it  was 
so.  It  seemed  to  him  that  by  all  the  wild  indulgence  of  his 
imagination  he  had  fostered  that  growth  of  which  he  had  so 
suddenly  been  made  aware.  He  could  no  longer  separate  the 
intention  from  the  fact,  and  he  believed  himself  guilty  of  both 
alike,  though  he  was  in  reality  but  the  victim  of  circumstances 
and  the  sport  of  a  cruel  destiny.  Everything  combined  to  bring 
about  the  unavoidable  result,  the  fatal  tendency  to  suicide  that 
existed  in  his  blood,  the  excessive  emotion  of  a  heart  unused  to 
feel,  the  despair  of  an  absolutely  hopeless  love,  the  horror  of  a 
self  that  seemed  all  at  once  blackened  by  the  most  hideous 
treachery,  even  the  constitutional  fearlessness  of  a  man  to 
whom  the  moment  of  death  offered  no  terrors ;  everything  was 
present  which  could  drive  Rex  over  the  brink,  and  everything 
was  absent  which  might  have  held  him  back. 

He  rose  once  more  from  his  chair  and  made  a  few  steps  in 
the  room,  with  downcast  eyes  and  folded  arms.  Methodical 
and  rational  to  the  end,  he  collected  his  thoughts  for  the  last 


332  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

time  and  reviewed  the  result  of  his  melancholy  reflexions,  forc 
ing  himself  to  state  the  facts  with  the  utmost  plainness  and 
conciseness,  as  though  he  were  summing  up  the  case  before  the 
jury  of  his  faculties,  upon  whom  depended  the  final  verdict. 
Too  wise  to  die  in  vain,  too  brave  to  die  for  a  selfish  motive,  too 
noble  to  be  influenced  by  any  fear  of  death  itself,  he  was  deter 
mined  that  the  deed  should  be  done  calmly,  in  the  fullest  con 
sciousness  of  its  importance  to  himself  and  others,  to  the  fullest 
satisfaction  of  his  own  enlightened  reasoning. 

That  his  present  condition  was  wholly  intolerable,  he  refused 
to  believe,  for  he  would  not  admit  that  there  could  be  anything 
too  hard  for  him  to  endure  if  his  own  inclinations  were  alone 
considered.  It  was  possible  that  his  strength  might  break  down 
if  he  were  exposed  to  such  an  ordeal  as  life  with  Hilda  and  his 
brother  during  many  years;  but  he  should  certainly  be  aware, 
in  such  a  case,  of  the  failing  of  his  powers,  and  he  would  be 
able  to  keep  his  own  secret  until  the  end,  or,  if  not,  to  do  a  year 
hence  what  he  meant  to  do  now.  He  was  far  too  old,  and  far 
too  wise,  to  take  his  life  from  romantic  and  scarcely  defined 
motives,  seeking  nothing  but  relief  from  a  half  hysteric  pain, 
asking  of  death  nothing  but  the  forgetfulness  of  life  and  love. 

One  watching  him  might  have  seen  as  much,  from  his  face 
and  manner.  Being  about  to  die,  he  looked  more  like  a  strong 
man  humiliated  by  the  shame  of  his  own  deeds  than  like  a  boy 
in  a  fit  of  despair.  The  look  of  compact  strength  that  belonged 
to  him  was  not  gone,  and  his  step  was  firm  and  even.  His  face 
was  haggard,  pale  and  drawn,  but  its  expression  was  calm  and 
determined,  full  of  the  dignity  of  a  man  superior  to  all  hasty 
impulses,  and  very  far  removed  from  the  influence  of  all  base 
motives.  And  his  outward  appearance  represented  very  truly 
the  moral  position  he  had  taken  and  held  with  such  tenacity. 
A  wise  man  might  have  differed  from  him,  but  could  not  have 
despised  him;  a  religious  person  would  have  been  sorry  for 
him,  but  could  not  have  condemned  his  profound  determination 
to  do  what  was  just  according  to  his  light,  in  perfect  sacrifice  of 
himself,  to  the  atonement  for  an  involuntary  wrong ;  a  weak 
man  would  have  envied  his  strength,  a  strong  man  might  well 
have  admired  his  calm  power  of  reasoning  in  the  face  of  death, 
and  a  man  of  heart  would  have  felt  for  him. 

He  stood  still  before  the  table  and  looked  out  through  the 


GRELFENSTEIN.  333 

open  window  into  the  bright  summer  air.  Presently  he  spoke 
to  himself  in  a  low,  distinct  voice. 

"  It  is  best,"  he  said  decisively.  "  I,  Horst  von  Rieseneck, 
stand  here  to  die,  because  I  love  my  brother's  wife.  I  die  of 
my  own  free  will.  I  die  because  I  will  not  live  and  feel  such  a 
thing  in  my  heart,  because  I  will  not  be  dishonoured  in  my 
own  estimation.  I  obey  no  man,  I  fear  no  man,  I  am  influenced 
by  no  man.  It  is  my  own  decision,  and  I  have  a  right  to  it. 
It  is  my  own  life  and  I  have  a  right  to  take  it.  It  is  my  own 
love  and  I  have  a  right  to  kill  it.  I  do  not  die  to  escape 
suffering,  but  the  inward  conviction  of  dishonour,  which  no 
honest  man  is  called  upon  to  bear.  I  die  in  the  full  possession 
of  all  my  senses  and  faculties,  and  if  any  of  them  were  disturbed 
I  would  wait,  in  order  to  judge  more  calmly.  That  is  all  I  have 
to  say,  I  believe." 

It  was  the  last  satisfaction  Rex  could  give  himself  in  the 
world  he  was  about  to  leave.  His  intelligence  demanded  of 
him  that  his  end  should  be  calm,  determined  and  yet  unpreju 
diced,  and  that  to  the  very  last  he  should  remain  open  to  the 
conviction  of  error  should  any  sufficient  reason  or  reasons  occur 
to  him  within  a  reasonable  time.  But  no  reason  why  he  should 
hold  his  hand  presented  itself,  and  he  was  aware  that  he  had 
reached  the  supreme  moment.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  not 
done  in  haste  what  he  was  now  going  to  do  upon  mature  con 
sideration,  for  he  had  always  loved  to  be  justified  in  his  actions. 
But  since  the  result  of  so  much  thought  had  only  strengthened 
his  first  intention,  there  was  no  object  in  delaying  the  end  any 
longer. 

Having  made  up  his  mind  definitely,  he  crossed  the  room  and 
unlocked  the  door,  reflecting  that,  since  he  was  to  be  found 
dead  in  a  few  minutes,  there  was  no  use  in  making  a  mystery 
of  the  fact  nor  in  obliging  people  to  break  the  door.  Keen, 
cool  and  practical  to  the  end,  the  action  was  characteristic  of 
him.  He  came  back  to  the  table  a  last  time  and  took  the 
revolver  in  his  hand.  He  examined  the  lock,  raised  the  weapon 
steadily  and  planted  the  cold  muzzle  firmly  against  his  temple. 
Then  he  turned  his  eyes  towards  the  open  window  and  pulled 
the  trigger. 

The  hammer  fell  with  an  inoffensive  snap,  and  Rex  frowned. 
But  he  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  relinquishing  his  pur- 


334  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

pose.  With  incredible  coolness,  he  went  to  a  corner  of  the 
room  and  took  a  box  of  perfectly  fresh  cartridges  from  the 
drawer  where  he  kept  his  ammunition ;  after  carefully  removing 
the  charges  from  the  revolver,  he  reloaded  the  chambers,  one 
by  one,  raised  the  hammer  and  resumed  his  position.  Some 
moments  elapsed  before  he  again  lifted  the  weapon  to  his  head. 
The  incident  had  shaken  his  nerves,  and  he  was  determined  to 
die  in  full  consciousness  and  appreciation  of  his  act. 

"  I  wish  I  could  flatter  myself  that  it  is  for  Hilda's  sake,"  he 
thought.  "  But  as  I  cannot,  let  this  be  the  end." 

The  castle  clock  began  to  toll  the  hour  of  noon,  as  he  raised 
the  revolver  a  second  time. 


GREIFENSTEHST.  335 


CHAPTEE   XXVII. 

WHEN  Berbel  had  hidden  the  precious  letter  among  her 
possessions,  she  had  firmly  intended  to  keep  it  for  some  time, 
before  giving  it  to  its  owner,  but  she  had  not  excluded  from  her 
calculations  the  possibility  of  consulting  Hilda  upon  the  matter. 
In  the  hurry  and  confusion  of  the  christening  day  it  had  seemed 
to  the  good  woman  that  she  might  wait  an  indefinite  time,  leav 
ing  Greif  in  ignorance  of  the  writing,  while  he  grew  daily  better 
able  to  bear  such  a  sudden  and  vivid  quickening  of  past  horrors, 
as  must  be  brought  about  in  his  mind  when  he  should  read  his 
father's  message.  It  appeared  to  Berbel  both  wiser  and  kinder 
to  hide  the  letter  for  a  long  time. 

The  day  had  passed  off  to  the  satisfaction  of  every  one,  and 
Berbel  certainly  deserved  a  share  in  the  success  of  the  christen 
ing.  She  had  been  indefatigable,  wise  and  provident  in  all 
things,  just  as  she  had  been  in  the  old  times  when  a  penny  meant 
more  than  a  gold  piece  now.  She  had  superintended  everything 
and  everybody,  from  the  baby  Sigmund  to  Greif  himself,  from 
the  christening  cake  to  the  potato  dumplings  of  the  labourers' 
feast.  Nothing  had  escaped  her  quick  eyes,  or  her  ready 
memory,  and  all  had  gone  well  to  the  end. 

But  when  all  was  over  Berbel  was  tired,  and  she  was  fain  to 
acknowledge  that  she  was  not  the  woman  she  had  been  twenty 
years  before.  She  was  tired  with  the  long  day's  work  and  slept, 
instead  of  meditating  upon  the  letter,  as  she  had  meant  to  do. 
Moreover  sleep  brought  a  wiser  judgment  to  her  refreshed  brain, 
and  when  she  awoke  in  the  morning  she  resolved  to  consult 
Hilda  without  delay.  Once  more  she  opened  her  treasure  safe 
and  took  out  the  sealed  envelope,  and  looked  at  it  attentively ; 
not  that  she  meant  to  run  the  risk  of  carrying  it  about  with  her, 
but  because  she  wished  to  fix  its  appearance  in  her  mind,  in 
order  to  describe  it  to  Hilda.  There  was  nothing  remarkable 
about  the  outward  look  of  the  letter  except,  perhaps,  the  super 
scription,  in  which  Wastei  had  detected  something  of  old 


336  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

Greifenstein's  roughness.  But  Berbel  thought  it  quite  natural 
that  he  should  have  addressed  it  simply,  "  To  my  son  Greif,"  as 
he  had  done.  To  her  mind  it  was  more  affectionate,  and  looked 
better  than  if  he  had  written  "  Seiner  Hochwohlgeboren  Herrn 
Greif  von  Greifenstein."  She  looked  closely  at  the  thing,  turn 
ing  it  over  and  examining  it  with  the  utmost  attention.  But 
there  was  nothing  worth  noticing  beyond  what  she  saw  at  first. 
The  writing  was  large,  heavy  and  clear,  and  the  envelope  was 
sealed  with  wax  bearing  the  impress  of  the  Greifenstein  arms. 
There  could  not  be  more  than  one  sheet  of  paper  inside,  for  the 
letter  was  very  thin.  Berbel  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find  it 
in  such  good  condition,  considering  that  it  had  lain  between  the 
linings  of  a  coat  for  more  than  a  year  and  a  half,  but  she 
reflected  that  during  that  time  it  had  been  carefully  preserved, 
most  probably  in  a  chest  or  drawer  in  the  recesses  of  the  Jew's 
shop,  and  that,  after  all,  there  was  no  particular  reason  why  it 
should  be  torn,  or  stained,  or  otherwise  injured,  as  though  it 
had  been  handed  about  from  one  person  to  another  ever  since 
it  had  been  written.  The  pristine  freshness  of  the  paper  was 
certainly  a  little  tarnished,  and  there  were  a  few  insignificant 
creases  on  its  smooth  surface;  but,  on  the  whole,  the  letter 
looked  as  though  it  might  have  been  written  but  a  few  weeks 
before  it  had  fallen  into  Berbel's  hands.  It  struck  the  good 
woman  that  Hilda  would  certainly  wish  to  hear  the  whole  story 
of  Wastei's  discovery,  which  was  strange  enough,  indeed ;  and 
that  when  she  had  heard  it,  that  would  not  be  all,  for  if  they 
decided  to  give  Greif  the  letter  at  once,  he  also  must  know 
whence  it  came. 

For  a  moment  Berbel  conceived  it  possible  that  it  might  not, 
after  all,  contain  a  farewell  communication,  since  there  was 
nothing  to  show  that  it  had  really  been  written  on  the  fatal 
night,  but  the  idea  would  not  bear  examination,  and  when  she 
laid  the  envelope  once  more  in  its  place  in  her  box  she  was 
firmly  persuaded  that  it  contained  old  Greifenstein's  last  words 
to  his  son.  The  longer  she  thought  of  this,  the  more  she  won 
dered  how  on  the  previous  day  she  could  have  meditated  keep 
ing  it  from  Greif  for  any  length  of  time.  Her  motive  had 
assuredly  been  to  save  him  pain  if  possible,  but  at  present  she 
saw  the  whole  matter  in  a  different  light.  At  the  most,  she 
thought,  he  might  be  saddened  for  a  day  or  two  by  this  message 
from  another  world,  but  it  was  better  that  he  should  suffer  a 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  837 

little  at  present  than  that  he  should  continue  to  fancy  that  his 
father  had  forgotten  him  in  his  last  moments.  Berbel  was  by 
no  means  without  her  share  of  the  national  military  instinct, 
which  will  face  annoyance  in  any  shape,  or  impose  it  upon 
others  rather  than  allow  a  duty  of  any  kind  to  be  eluded,  or  the 
execution  of  its  mandates  postponed.  Better  for  Greif,  she 
thought,  that  the  matter  should  be  settled  at  once,  better  for 
herself,  better  for  everybody.  Delay  might  be  fatal.  She  her 
self  might  die  suddenly,  and  the  letter  would  be  found  among 
her  belongings.  What  would  be  thought  of  her  by  her  beloved 
mistress  if  it  were  discovered  that  she  had  concealed  so  precious 
a  document  ?  Or  Greif  might  die,  without  ever  knowing  that 
his  father  had  written  —  a  hundred  misfortunes  might  occur  to 
prevent  the  letter  reaching  the  hands  for  which  it  was  destined. 
There  was  no  time  like  the  present,  thought  the  sturdy  Berbel, 
and  no  day  like  to-day  for  doing  unpleasant  things  which  could 
not  be  avoided. 

It  was  necessary  to  find  an  opportunity  of  speaking  with 
Hilda  alone,  without  danger  of  interruption,  and  as  soon  as 
possible.  It  was  yet  early  morning,  and  Hilda  was  in  all  proba 
bility  still  asleep,  dreaming  of  the  festivities  of  the  previous 
day,  but  it  would  be  important  to  know  whether  Greif  was  up 
or  not,  and  whether  he  intended  to  leave  the  castle  during  the 
morning.  Berbel  left  her  room  and  went  down  to  the  court. 
The  men  were  sure  to  know  if  Greif  had  meant  to  go  into  the 
forest  or  to  stay  at  home,  as  he  would  certainly  have  given  orders 
for  some  one  to  accompany  him.  He  was  not  like  his  father, 
who  had  loved  to  tramp  all  day  alone,  wearying  himself  out,  and 
coming  home  late  in  the  evening,  in  the  perpetual  attempt  to 
make  the  days  seem  short.  Greif  was  by  nature  gregarious,  and 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  society  of  his  dogs,  but  usually  took 
a  couple  of  men  with  him,  when  he  could  not  prevail  upon  Rex 
to  join  in  his  expeditions. 

Berbel  went  into  the  court  and  asked  a  few  questions,  care 
lessly  enough.  It  was  a  warm  morning  and  the  men  seemed 
sleepy  after  the  carousal  of  the  previous  night.  None  of  them 
had  received  any  orders  for  the  day,  and  those  who  had  any 
thing  to  do  went  about  their  occupations  in  a  leisurely  fashion, 
slowly  and  deliberately,  while  those  who  had  no  work  sat  together 
in  a  shady  corner  smoking  their  porcelain  pipes,  and  discussing 
the  festive  reminiscences  of  the  christening,  enjoying  their  idle- 


338  GREIFENSTBIN. 

ness  as  very  strong  men  can,  who  habitually  work  hard  and  say 
little.  It  was  evident  that  nothing  would  be  done  on  that  day, 
and  it  was  probable  that  Greif  would  stay  at  home.  Berbel 
turned  away  and  went  towards  the  entrance  of  the  hall.  She 
was  about  to  go  in  when  she  heard  footsteps  behind  her,  and  on 
looking  round  saw  Wastei  striding  up  with  his  long,  greyhound 
step. 

"  God  greet  you,  Fran  Berbel,"  he  said,  coming  nearer. 

He  was  no  longer  arrayed  in  his  magnificent  velvet  coat  as  on 
the  previous  day.  Such  finery  was  only  for  the  greatest  festivi 
ties,  and  at  present  he  wore  no  jacket  at  all,  but  a  rough  waist 
coat  with  metal  buttons,  which  hung  loose  and  open  over  his 
shirt,  and  he  had  a  bundle  under  his  arm. 

"  Good  morning,  Wastei,"  answered  Berbel,  fixing  her  sharp 
eyes  upon  him  with  a  look  of  inquiry.  She  wondered  why  he 
had  come. 

"  I  have  brought  you  something,"  he  remarked,  standing  still 
before  her,  and  tapping  the  bundle  he  carried  with  one  hand. 

"  More  trout  ? "  inquired  Berbel  with  a  twitching  smile. 
"  There  is  no  gold  to  be  picked  up  to-day,  Master  Wastei." 

"Unfortunately,"  he  answered.  "But  then  one  can  never 
know,"  he  added  reflectively. 

"  Out  with  it !  "  exclaimed  Berbel  who  was  not  in  a  humour 
for  long  conversations. 

"  Out  with  it  is  soon  said,"  returned  the  other.  "  It  is  a  serious 
matter.  Do  you  think  I  can  chatter  like  a  magpie  without  think 
ing  of  what  I  am  to  say  ?  " 

"  Then  think,  and  be  quick  about  it,  or  I  shall  go  in." 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  in  a  hurry,  you  may  take  the  bundle  without 
any  explanation,"  replied  Wastei,  holding  it  out  towards  her. 
Berbel  took  it,  and  felt  it,  as  though  trying  to  guess  what  it 
contained. 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked  at  length,  as  her  imagination  failed 
to  suggest  the  nature  of  the  contents. 

"  It  is  my  coat,"  said  Wastei.  "  The  old  wolf's  coat,  if  you 
like  it  better." 

"And  what  am  I  to  do  with  your  coat?"  inquired  Berbel. 
In  spite  of  the  question  she  had  thrust  the  bundle  under  one 
arm  and  held  it  firmly,  with  the  evident  intention  of  keeping  it. 

"  When  you  have  given  the  letter  to  the  baron,  you  might  be 
so  kind  as  to  mend  the  pocket  for  me,"  said  Wastei  calmly. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  839 

"  But  I  told  you  I  should  perhaps  wait  some  time  before  giv 
ing  the  letter." 

"Yes  —  but  you  have  thought  about  that  in  the  night,"  an 
swered  Wastei  keenly.  "  You  will  not  wait  much  longer  than 
to-day." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  It  would  not  be  like  you,  Frau  Berbel,"  said  the  man,  with 
affected  indifference. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  replied  Berbel,  smiling  unconsciously  at  the 
subtle  flattery  bestowed  upon  her  scrupulously  honest  character. 
"  Perhaps  not.  I  had  thought  of  it,  as  you  say." 

"  And  I  had  thought  that  unless  the  old  wolf's  coat  were 
there  with  the  hole  in  the  pocket,  Frau  Berbel  might  not  be 
able  to  make  it  quite  clear  that  Master  Wastei  had  spoken  the 
truth.  But  if  the  truth  is  quite  clear,  why  then — "  he  paused, 
as  though  he  did  not  care  what  might  happen  in  such  a  case. 

Berbel  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  laughed  a  little, 
a  phenomenon  which  with  her  was  exceedingly  unusual. 

"  You  are  really  not  stupid  at  all,"  she  remarked.  The  ghost 
of  a  smile  played  about  Wastei's  thin  lips  as  he  turned  his  eyes 
upon  her.  Their  expression  was  at  once  keen,  cunning  and 
good-natured. 

"  Nobody  ever  said  I  was  particularly  dull,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  you  want  me  to  show  the  coat,  together  with  the  letter?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  But  when  they  know  that  it  belonged  to  Herr  von  Greifen- 
stein,  they  will  wish  to  keep  it,  will  they  not  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  repeated  Wastei. 

"  And  then,  when  they  find  that  you  have  bought  it  honestly, 
they  will  want  to  buy  it  of  you." 

"  Of  course." 

"  And  you  gave  twenty  marks  for  it?  " 

"  Twenty  marks." 

"  And  you  think  they  will  give  you  more  for  it,  though  I 
shall  tell  them  just  what  it  cost  you  at  the  Jew's?" 

"  Of  course." 

"You  are  not  stupid,  Wastei.  You  are  not  stupid  at  all. 
But  I  thought  you  imagined  the  coat  would  bring  you  luck.  I 
wonder  that  you  want  to  part  with  it !  " 

"  Do  you  ?  Is  it  not  luck  if  I  get  more  for  it  than  it  cost  at 
the  Jew's  ?  "  The  man's  eyes  twinkled  as  he  spoke. 


340  GBEIFENSTEIK. 

"  There  is  certainly  something  in  what  you  say,"  answered 
Berbel.  "  I  am  not  surprised  that  you  got  it  so  cheap.  You 
understand  a  bargain,  I  see." 

"  And  you  will  be  glad,  too,  Frau  Berbel,  when  you  have  to 
explain  how  the  letter  was  found,"  said  Wastei  thoughtfully. 
"You  will  be  glad  to  have  the  coat  in  your  hands  to  show,  and 
if  they  like,  they  can  go  to  the  Jew  and  he  will  tell  them  that  I 
bought  it  only  the  other  day." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  you  are  telling  the  truth,  Wastei  ?  " 

"  I  always  do,  now  that  I  have  a  gun  license,"  he  answered. 
"  You  see,  the  truth  is  best  for  people  who  have  anything  to 
lose." 

"  Fie,  Wastei ! "  exclaimed  Berbel,  half  inclined  to  smile  at 
his  odd  philosophy,  but  unwilling  to  let  him  see  that  she  could 
appreciate  a  jest  upon  so  moral  a  subject. 

"  It  is  true,  Frau  Berbel.  Xot  that  I  ever  lied  much,  either, 
though  I  have  told  some  smart  tales  to  the  foresters  in  the  old 
days,  when  I  was  a  free-shot  in  the  forest,  and  they  were  always 
trying  to  catch  me  with  a  hare  in  my  pocket  —  and  to  you  too, 
Frau  Berbel,  when  I  used  to  make  you  think  the  game  was  all 
right.  What  did  it  matter,  so  long  as  you  had  it  to  eat,  you 
and  —  well,  those  were  queer  times.  I  suppose  you  have  game 
whenever  you  like,  now,  do  you  not  V  " 

"Ay,  Wastei  —  I  sometimes  could  not  find  any  lead  in  your 
hares  — " 

"  That  made  them  lighter  to  carry  and  more  wholesome  to 
eat,"  observed  the  other  with  a  chuckle. 

"  And  I  had  my  doubts  about  them,  of  course  —  " 

"  But  you  did  not  ask  many  questions  —  not  veiy  many  —  did 
you?" 

"  Not  always,  Wastei,"  answered  Berbel  with  a  twitch  of  the 
lips.  "  You  see  I  thought  it  best  to  believe  you,  and  to  treat 
you  like  an  honest  fellow.  There  were  reasons  — " 

"  Better  than  doubts,  especially  when  the  hare  was  dead  and 
lying  on  your  kitchen  table.  Well,  well,  those  times  are  gone 
now,  and  if  I  ever  shot  a  hare  or  a  roebuck  without  lead,  or 
pulled  the  trout  out  of  the  stream  without  making  a  hole  in  his 
nose,  why  I  have  forgotten  it,  and  I  will  not  do  it  again,  I 
promise  you.  I  am  growing  old,  Frau  Berbel,  I  am  growing 
old." 

"  And  wise,  I  hope  — " 


GREIFENSTEIN.  341 

"  When  a  man  is  young  he  can  do  without  a  gun  license," 
observed  Wastei.  "  When  the  years  begin  to  come,  he  wants 
that  and  other  things  too.  May-wine  in  May,  Frau  Berbel,  and 
brown  beer  in  October." 

"  And  all  the  cherry  spirits  you  can  pick  up,  between  times,  I 
suppose.  What  are  the  other  things  V  " 

"  A  good  house  to  live  in,  and  a  good  wife  to  roll  the  potato 
dumplings.  These  are  two  things  that  are  good  when  the  grey 
years  come." 

"You  put  the  house  before  the  wife,  I  see,"  remarked  Berbel. 

"  Because  if  I  had  a  good  house  I  could  have  the  good  wife 
fast  enough.  Wastei  is  not  so  dull  as  he  looks.  He  has  looked 
about  him  in  the  world.  Ay,  Frau  Berbel,  now  if  you  were 
thinking  of  being  married  and  had  your  choice  of  two  men, 
would  you  choose  the  one  with  a  house  or  the  one  without  ?  It 
is  a  simple  question." 

"  Very  simple,  Master  Wastei,"  answered  Berbel,  stiffening 
her  stiff  neck  a  little.  "  So  simple  that  it  is  of  no  use  to  think 
about  it,  nor  even  to  ask  it.  When  do  you  want  your  coat  back?  " 

"  I  want  a  coat,  but  not  that  one  —  whenever  you  please. 
But  do  not  hurry  yourself,  for  I  shall  not  catch  cold,  and  my 
sweetheart  does  not  care  whether  I  have  one  or  not." 

"  So  you  have  a  sweetheart,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Ay,  and  a  treasure,  too  —  in  my  waistcoat  pocket,"  explained 
Wastei,  showing  the  shining  edge  of  the  gold  piece  he  had 
received  on  the  previous  day.  "  She  has  yellow  hair,  like  the 
lady  Hilda's,  and  a  golden  heart  like  Frau  Berbel's  —  I  only 
wish  she  were  as  big." 

"  Fie,  Wastei —  making  compliments  at  this  time  of  day,  and 
to  an  old  woman  ! " 

"  Old  friends,  old  logs,  old  spirits,"  observed  Wastei.  "  We 
have  known  each  other  a  long  time,  Frau  Berbel,  in  good  and 
bad  days,  summer  and  winter,  and  you  have  always  been  the 
same  to  me." 

"  Small  credit  for  that !  "  exclaimed  Berbel.  "  You  have  done 
me  many  a  good  turn  in  twenty  years,  and  my  ladies  too,  and 
you  have  never  got  much  by  it,  that  I  can  see  —  more  praise  to 
you ! " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  ejaculated  Wastei,  who  was  visibly  affected  by 
the  speech.  "  God  greet  you,  Frau  Berbel !  "  he  added,  turning 
away  abruptly  and  leaving  her  standing  alone  in  the  court. 


342  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

Berbel  looked  after  him  for  a  few  seconds,  and  there  was  an 
unusually  tender  expression  in  her  sharp  eyes,  as  she  watched 
his  retreating  figure.  He  had  been  a  wild  fellow  in  his  day,  a 
daring  poacher,  an  intrepid  drinker  of  fiery  cherry  spirits, 
always  the  first  in  a  fight  and  the  last  out  of  it,  the  terror  of 
the  head  forester  and  his  men,  the  object  of  old  Greifenstein's 
inveterate  hatred,  the  admiration  of  the  village  maidens  for 
twenty  miles  around,  the  central  figure  in  a  hundred  adventures 
and  hairbreadth  escapes  of  all  kinds,  and  yet,  as  though  he 
were  miraculously  preserved  from  harm,  he  had  always  managed 
to  keep  out  of  trouble,  and  though  many  a  time  suspected  of 
making  free  with  the  game,  yet  never  convicted,  nor  even 
brought  to  a  trial.  It  had  been  impossible  to  catch  him  and 
impossible  to  prove  anything  against  him.  At  last  the  head 
forester,  who  had  a  secret  reverence  for  his  extraordinary 
powers  of  endurance  and  unrivalled  skill  in  woodcraft,  had 
made  terms  with  him  and  employed  him  as  a  sort  of  super 
numerary  upon  the  government  establishment.  From  that  day, 
Wastei,  who  would  have  waged  war  to  the  death  with  all 
regular  foresters,  had  surrendered  at  discretion  to  the  kindness 
shown  him,  and  had  given  up  poaching  for  ever.  Berbel  could 
not  help  liking  him,  and  being  grateful  to  him  for  many  a  good 
turn  he  had  done  the  poor  ladies  at  Sigmundskron.  She  had 
often  distrusted  him  at  first,  but  after  twenty  years'  acquaint 
ance  and  friendship  she  owned,  as  she  watched  him  stride  away, 
that  he  had  a  heart  of  gold,  as  he  had  said  of  her  but  a  few 
moments  earlier. 

It  seemed  as  though  circumstances  pointed  clearly  to  the 
course  she  had  intended  to  pursue,  for  since  Wastei  had  brought 
her  the  coat  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  put  off  the  execution 
of  her  purpose.  She  determined  to  obtain  an  interview  with 
Hilda  as  soon  as  possible  and  to  place  both  the  garment  and 
the  letter  in  her  hands.  The  reasoning  she  followed  in  selecting 
Hilda  for  her  confidence  has  been  sufficiently  explained  already. 
The  intimacy  existing  between  the  two  made  such  a  plan  seem 
most  natural  to  her,  Hilda's  strong  and  sensible  nature  made  it 
safe,  the  difficulty  of  the  mission,  so  far  as  Greif  was  concerned, 
made  it  appear  wisest  to  leave  the  matter  to  his  wife's  wisdom 
arid  tact.  Berbel  went  upstairs  with  her  bundle  under  her 
arm. 

Though  Hilda  had  not  risen  quite  so  early  as  her  old  servant, 


GREIFENSTEIN.  343 

she  was  by  this  time  dressed  and  ready  for  the  morning  walk 
Greif  liked  so  much  in  the  summer  time.  Berbel  met  them 
both  in  one  of  the  passages,  walking  quickly,  arm  in  arm,  talk 
ing  and  laughing  happily  as  they  went.  Berbel  would  have  let 
them  pass,  seeing  that  Hilda  was  not  alone,  had  not  the  latter 
stopped  and  asked  a  question. 

"What  have  you  got  there,  Berbel?"  she  inquired,  looking 
at  the  bundle. 

"  It  is  a  very  important  matter,"  answered  Berbel.  "  And  if 
you  could  spare  me  a  few  minutes  —  " 

"  Is  it  really  important  ? "  asked  Hilda,  leaning  on  her  hus 
band's  arm. 

"  Very.  And  if  you  could  spare  the  time  —  "  Berbel  looked 
at  Greif. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  latter.  "  I  have  plenty  to  do,  dear. 
Finish  your  business  with  Berbel  and  meet  me  on  the  tower  — 
there  is  a  man  waiting  for  me,  I  believe." 

Thereupon  Greif  went  on  his  way  down  the  broad  corridor, 
leaving  Hilda  and  Berbel  to  their  own  devices. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Hilda,  who  wanted  to  lose  no  time  in 
rejoining  her  husband. 

"  It  is  a  very  serious  affair,  and  concerns  the  baron,"  answered 
Berbel.  "  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  you  would  come  to  my 
room." 

Hilda  followed  her,  wondering  what  could  have  happened, 
and  not  without  some  presentiment  of  evil.  When  they  had 
reached  their  destination  Berbel  carefully  bolted  the  door  and 
turned  to  her  mistress.  It  was  a  small  bright  room,  vaulted 
and  whitewashed,  simply  but  comfortably  furnished.  Hilda 
sat  down  and  looked  up  at  Berbel's  face,  somewhat  anxiuosly. 

"  It  is  nothing  bad,"  said  Berbel.  "  But  it  will  give  pain  to 
the  baron,  and  so  I  consulted  you.  I  have  found  a  letter  written 
to  him  by  Herr  von  Greifenstein  on  the  night  he  died.  No  one 
but  you  can  give  it  to  him." 

Hilda  started  slightly.  Anything  which  recalled  the  fearful 
tragedy  was  necessarily  painful  and  disturbing  to  the  peace  of 
her  unclouded  happiness. 

"  A  letter  ?  "  she  repeated  in  a  low  voice.  "  Where  did  you 
find  it?  They  searched  everywhere  for  months.  Are  you  quite 
sure  ?  " 

"  They  might  have  searched  for  ever,  but  for  the  merest  acci- 


344  GREIFENSTEIN. 

dent,"  answered  Berbel,  beginning  to  undo  her  bundle.  "  This," 
she  added,  unfolding  the  velvet  garment  —  "this  is  the  coat 
Herr  von  Greifenstein  wore  when  he  shot  himself." 

Hilda  gazed  silently  at  the  thing  during  several  seconds,  and 
shuddered  at  the  thoughts  it  recalled,  though  she  was  by  no 
means  persuaded  that  Berbel  was  not  mistaken. 

"  How  do  you  know  it  is?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"  It  was  stolen  on  that  night  by  one  of  those  city  servants 
who  were  always  at  Greifenstein.  Your  mother  did  not  notice 
it.  The  man  took  it  to  a  Jew,  who  kept  it  a  year  and  then 
hung  it  up  for  sale.  A  few  days  ago  Wastei  bought  it  to  wear 
at  the  christening." 

"  But  how  did  he  know  ?  " 

"  He  guessed  it,  and  found  these  marks." 

Berbel  showed  the  collar  of  the  coat  to  Hilda,  putting  her 
finger  on  each  spot  in  succession. 

"  It  looks  like  rust,"  said  Hilda. 

"  It  is  the  blood  of  Herr  von  Greifenstein,"  answered  Berbel 
solemnly.  "  The  ball  went  in  just  below  the  right  ear,  as  I 
have  heard  your  mother  say  more  than  once." 

"  How  horrible !  "  exclaimed  Hilda,  drawing  back,  though 
her  eyes  remained  riveted  on  the  rusty  marks. 

"  It  is  not  gay,"  said  Berbel  grimly.  "  Now  look  here.  Do 
you  see  the  pocket?  Yes.  Well,  do  you  see  that  the  lining  is 
torn  just  above  it  ?  Good.  Herr  von  Greifenstein  wrote  his 
letter  and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket,  because  he  was  thinking 
of  other  things  at  that  moment,  and  paid  no  attention  to  what 
he  did,  which  was  natural  enough,  poor  gentleman.  But  instead 
of  putting  it  into  the  pocket,  he  happened  to  slip  it  through  the 
slit,  so  that  it  fell  down  between  the  coat  and  the  lining.  Do 
you  see?" 

"  Yes  —  and  then  ?  " 

"  And  then  he  pulled  the  trigger  of  his  pistol  and  died.  The 
letter  was  hidden  in  the  coat,  the  coat  was  stolen,  taken  to  the 
Jew's  and  sold  to  Wastei  eighteen  months  later,  with  the  letter 
still  in  it.  And  Wastei  brought  me  the  letter  yesterday,  and 
the  coat  to-day.  That  is  the  whole  history." 

"  Where  is  it  —  the  letter?"  asked  Hilda  in  an  anxious  tone. 

Berbel  unlocked  her  little  deal  chest  and  withdrew  the 
precious  document,  which  she  put  into  Hilda's  hand.  Hilda 
turned  it  over  and  over,  and  looked  from  it  to  the  coat,  and 


GREIFENSTEIN.  345 

back  again  to  the  sealed  envelope,  reading  the  address  again 
and  again. 

"  It  is  a  strange  story,"  she  said  at  last.  "  But  I  do  not  see 
that  there  can  be  any  doubt.  O  Berbel,  Berbel !  What  do  you 
think  there  is  written  inside  this  little  bit  of  paper  ?  " 

"  A  few  words  to  say  good-bye  to  his  son,  I  suppose,"  the 
woman  answered. 

"  If  it  were  only  that  —  "  Hilda  did  not  finish  the  sentence, 
but  her  face  grew  slowly  pale  and  she  stared  vacantly  out  of 
the  window,  while  the  hand  that  held  the  letter  rested  on  her 
knee. 

"  I  do  not  see  that  it  can  be  anything  else,"  said  Berbel 
quietly.  "  It  cannot  be  a  will,  for  they  found  everything  about 
the  property.  What  could  the  poor  gentleman  say  except 
'Good-bye,'  and  'God  bless  you'?  It  seems  very  simple  to 
me.  Of  course  I  knew  that  it  would  make  the  baron  very  sad 
to  read  it,  and  so  I  came  to  you,  because  I  knew  you  could  find 
just  the  right  moment  to  give  it  to  him,  and  just  the  right 
words  to  say,  and  it  seemed  wrong  in  me  to  keep  it  even  a  day. 
At  first,  I  thought  I  ought  to  put  it  away  and  wait  a  year  or 
two,  until  he  had  quite  forgotten  the  first  shock  —  but  then  —  " 

"  Thank  heaven  you  did  not !  "  exclaimed  Hilda. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  I  have  pleased  you,"  observed  Berbel  in  her 
sharp,  good-natured  way. 

"  Pleased  ?  Oh,  anything  would  have  pleased  me  better  than 
this  thing !  It  is  dreadful,  after  all  this  time  has  passed  —  " 

"  But,  after  all,"  suggested  Berbel,  "  it  is  only  the  affair  of  a 
day  or  two,  and  the  baron  will  be  very  glad,  afterwards,  to  feel 
that  his  father  had  not  forgotten  him." 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  answered  Hilda  with  increasing 
anxiety.  "  We  never  knew  why  they  killed  themselves  —  it  is 
an  awful  secret,  and  the  explanation  is  in  this  letter." 

"  You  never  knew  ! "  cried  Berbel  in  great  astonishment.  It 
had  not  entered  her  comprehension  that  the  real  facts  could  be 
unknown,  though  they  had  never  been  communicated  to  herself. 

"  No  —  neither  I  nor  my  husband,  and  I  had  hoped  that  as  all 
has  turned  out  happily  we  might  never  know.  It  would  have 
been  far  better,  far  better !  " 

"  Yes,  far  better,"  echoed  Berbel,  whose  simple  calculations  had 
been  upset  by  the  news,  and  who  began  to  wish  that  the  coat  had 
fallen  into  other  hands. 


346  GREIFENSTEIN. 

Hilda  sat  quite  still,  thinking  what  she  should  do.  The 
situation  was  painful  from  its  very  simplicity,  for  it  was 
assuredly  her  duty  to  go  to  her  husband  and  give  him  the 
letter,  telling  him  the  whole  truth  at  once.  He  had  a  right 
to  receive  the  message  from  his  dead  father  without  a  moment's 
delay,  and  she  knew  it,  though  she  hesitated  at  the  thought 
of  what  might  follow.  Her  beautiful  young  face  was  pale 
with  anxiety,  and  her  bright  eyes  were  veiled  by  sad  thoughts. 
Poor  Berbel  was  terribly  distressed  at  the  result  of  her  dis 
covery  and  tried  to  imagine  some  means  of  improving  the 
situation. 

"  If  you  would  let  me,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  I  would  take  the 
letter  to  the  baron  and  explain  — if  it  would  hurt  you  —  " 

"  You  ?  I  ?  "  cried  Hilda  almost  fiercely.  "  It  is  of  him  I  am 
thinking,  and  of  what  he  will  suffer.  What  does  it  matter  for 
me  ?  It  is  my  duty,  and  I  must  do  it  —  am  I  his  wife  only  when 
the  sun  shines  and  we  are  happy  ?  Ah,  Berbel,  you  should  know 
better  than  that !  " 

"  I  only  wanted  to  spare  you,"  said  Berbel  humbly. 

Hilda  looked  up  quickly  and  then  took  the  old  servant's  hand 
kindly  in  hers. 

"  I  know,"  she  said  softly.  "  But  you  must  think  first  of  him, 
always  —  if  you  love  me.  Berbel  —  are  you  perfectly  sure  that 
all  this  is  true  and  real,  that  no  wicked  person  is  trying  to  do 
us  some  harm  ?  " 

"  I  am  as  sure  as  I  can  be  —  Wastei  said  I  might  ask  the 
Jew,  if  I  pleased." 

"  It  is  true  —  it  is  Wastei.  Unless  he  is  mistaken  himself 
there  can  be  no  doubt,  then.  But  it  is  all  so  strange  !  " 

It  was  stranger  still,  perhaps,  that  Wastei's  name  should  be 
enough  to  dispel  in  Hilda's  mind  all  doubts  as  to  the  truth  of 
the  story,  and  yet  she  would  have  believed  the  wild,  kind- 
hearted  free-shot  sooner  than  many  a  respectable  member  of 
society. 

"  Put  away  the  coat,  Berbel,"  she  said  after  a  pause.  "  He 
will  not  need  to  see  it  when  he  has  read  the  letter,  and  it  would 
hurt  him,  as  it  hurts  me." 

"  Shall  I  give  it  back  to  Wastei  ?  "  inquired  Berbel,  folding 
it  up. 

"  No,  oh  no !  Put  it  away  carefully  where  it  will  be  safe,  but 
where  no  one  will  ever  see  it  again." 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  347 

"  Waste!  gave  twenty  marks  for  i£,"  observed  Berbel.  "  It  is 
not  fair  that  he  should  lose  his  money."  She  could  not  help 
speaking  a  good  word  for  her  old  friend. 

"  Give  him  forty  to  buy  a  new  one.  He  has  been  honest,  very 
honest."  Hilda  sighed,  thinking,  perhaps,  of  all  the  pain  that 
might  have  been  spared,  if  Wastei  had  put  the  letter  into  the 
fire,  instead  of  giving  it  to  Berbel. 

The  good  woman  carefully  folded  the  coat  and  hid  it  away 
in  the  recesses  of  a  huge  press  that  filled  the  end  of  the  room. 
Then  she  rolled  up  the  coloured  handkerchief  and  put  it  into 
her  pocket. 

"  It  is  Wastei's,"  she  said,  as  her  mistress  watched  her. 

The  disappearance  of  the  coat  recalled  to  Hilda  the  duty  of 
acting  immediately,  and  she  rose  from  her  seat  with  a  heavy 
heart.  As  she  was  about  to  leave  the  room  a  thought  crossed 
her  mind,  and  she  stopped. 

"  Berbel,"  she  said,  "  my  mother  must  never  know  that  this 
has  been  found,  or  at  least,  you  must  never  speak  of  it  to  her  or 
to  any  one,  and  you  must  tell  Wastei  to  hold  his  tongue.  She 
has  had  sorrow  enough  in  her  life,  and  we  need  not  add  any 
more,  now  that  she  is  so  happy." 

"  Good,"  answered  Berbel.  "  I  will  not  talk  about  it,  and  as  for 
Wastei,  I  would  trust  him  with  anything." 

Hilda  slipped  the  fatal  letter  into  the  bosom  of  her  frock  and 
went  in  search  of  her  husband. 


348  GREIFENSTEIN. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

GREIF  had  not  found  the  man  who  was  supposed  to  be  wait 
ing  for  him,  and  he  himself  had  sat  down  to  wait  for  Hilda  on 
the  shady  side  of  the  great  tower.  The  air  was  warm  and 
fragrant,  even  at  that  height,  with  the  odour  of  the  pines,  and 
the  sun  was  not  yet  high  enough  to  make  it  unpleasantly  hot. 
Through  the  bright,  sunlit  distance  Greif  could  see  many  a 
familiar  landmark  of  the  forest,  and  as  he  sat  there  doing  noth 
ing,  he  amused  himself  half  unconsciously  with  counting  the 
points  in  the  surrounding  landscape  which  he  had  visited,  and 
those  he  had  never  reached,  and  the  number  of  the  former 
greatly  exceeded  that  of  the  rest.  It  was  a  very  peaceful  scene, 
and  Greif  breathed  in  the  smooth  refreshing  air  with  delight, 
while  his  eyes  wandered  lazily  up  and  down  the  heights  and 
along  the  feathery  green  crests  of  the  forest's  waves.  For  all  the 
firs  and  pines  were  still  tipped  with  the  green  of  their  new-grown 
shoots,  though  the  autumn  winds  and  the  winter  snows  would 
soon  stain  the  newcomers  as  black  as  the  old  boughs  on  which 
they  grew.  The  time  is  short  indeed,  during  which  the  Black 
Forest  is  not  black,  but  takes  a  softer  hue,  and  a  warmer  light. 
The  autumn  comes  early,  the  spring  comes  late,  there  is  but 
little  summer,  and  the  winter  has  it  all  to  himself  during  the 
rest  of  the  time.  But  though  the  summer  days  be  few,  they 
are  of  exquisite  beauty,  such  as  are  rarely  seen  elsewhere  in 
Europe.  Greif  knew,  as  he  sat  by  his  tower,  that  they  were 
nearly  over,  and  he  was  the  more  grateful  for  the  delight  of  the 
soft  sunshine,  of  the  green  treetops,  of  the  fragrance  of  the  forest 
coming  up  to  his  nostrils  over  the  grey  ramparts,  of  the  short 
whistle  of  the  shooting  swallows,  that  seemed  to  spring  up  like 
the  spray  of  a  fountain  out  of  the  abyss  beneath,  and  after 
circling  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  castle  fell  again  with  light 
ning  speed  into  the  cool  depths  below.  Greif  listened  to  the 
rushing  noise  of  their  wings,  and  to  their  short,  clear  cry,  and 
he  wished  that  Hilda  were  beside  him,  to  help  him  to  enjoy  the 


GREIFENSTEDST.  349 

more  what  already  gave  him  such  keen  pleasure.  To  him, 
indeed,  Sigmundskron  still  had  the  charm  of  novelty.  Its  situ 
ation  on  a  high  and  projecting  crag  was  very  different  from  that 
of  Greifenstein,  which  latter  was  but  the  three-cornered  end  of 
a  precipitous  promontory,  cut  off  from  the  forest  by  its  single 
enormous  bulwark.  Sigmundskron  commanded  a  view  of  many 
miles  over  the  landscape  below,  while  Greifenstein  lay  much 
lower,  and  a  man  standing  on  the  topmost  rampart  could  but 
just  look  over  the  level  sea  of  the  treetops  to  the  higher  hills  in 
the  distance  beyond. 

Greif  was  very  happy.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  all  the 
possible  unhappiness  of  his  life  had  concentrated  itself  into  a 
very  short  time,  not  extending  over  more  than  a  few  days,  from 
the  moment  when  he  had  received  news  of  the  catastrophe  in 
the  hall  at  the  banquet  at  Schwarzburg,  to  that  in  which  the 
delirium  of  his  fever  had  overtaken  him.  The  rest  had  been 
but  little  troubled  by  the  tragedy  which  had  left  him  alone  in 
the  world.  Nothing  cuts  us  off  from  the  past  more  effectually 
than  a  dangerous  illness  in  which  we  are  for  the  most  part  un 
conscious.  Greif  had  felt,  when  he  recovered,  that  he  was  com 
pletely  separated  from  the  former  time,  and  the  sensation  had 
itself  contributed  to  his  recovery,  by  deadening  the  sense  of  pain 
that  had  been  with  him  so  constantly  before  he  broke  down 
altogether.  Rex  had  not  been  ill,  and  to  him  the  past  did  not 
seem  so  distant ;  moreover  he  knew  what  Greif  did  not  know, 
and  had  greater  cause  for  sadness.  Greif  was  happy,  and  he 
knew  it.  It  appeared  impossible,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  that 
anything  should  arise  out  of  the  gloom  of  Greifenstein  to 
trouble  his  serenity  in  Sigmundskron.  Every  effort  had  been 
made  by  him  and  Rex  together  to  discover  some  clue  to  the 
mystery,  which  for  Rex  was  no  mystery  any  longer,  and  noth 
ing  had  been  found  which  could  cast  the  smallest  light  upon 
what  had  happened.  Rex  suggested  the  possibility  of  a  sudden 
madness  having  overtaken  one  or  more  of  the  party,  and  Greif 
was  so  easily  satisfied,  and  so  glad  to  bury  the  past,  that  he 
accepted  the  idea  without  defining  it.  He  reflected,  indeed, 
that  under  no  imaginable  circumstances  could  his  present  be 
touched  or  disturbed  by  the  true  explanation  of  the  tragedy, 
should  it  ever  be  found,  and  he  was  content  to  let  the  tide  of 
years  flow  silently  over  the  place  those  terrible  deeds  held  in  his 
own  life. 


350  GREIFENSTEIN. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  he  was  happy  now,  since  all  his  hopes 
were  attained  and  all  his  desires  satisfied.  Being  also  of  a 
faithful  and  persistent  nature,  his  satisfaction  was  solid  and 
permanent.  Apart  from  the  one  dark  spot  which  was  so  rapidly 
fading  into  the  dim  distance,  he  had  no  regrets ;  no  dreams  of 
what  might  have  been  sent  rays  of  false  light  through  his 
present,  no  images  of  disappointed  desires  haunted  him  in  the 
silent  night,  no  shadows  of  a  lost  joy,  still  madly  anticipated  in 
the  distorted  anachronisms  of  a  wounded  heart,  came  between 
him  and  Hilda's  glorious  beauty.  That  misery  of  humanity 
was  unknown  to  him,  in  which  the  soul  still  looks  forward  with 
a  beating,  throbbing  hope  to  what  the  memory  knows  is  buried 
in  the  depth  and  dust  of  twenty  years.  All  was  real,  present, 
glorious,  happy  and  complete.  If  any  one  had  asked  him  what 
he  most  dreaded,  he  would  have  said  that  he  dreaded  death 
alone,  death  for  Hilda,  death  for  the  sturdy  little  child  that  was 
to  bear  the  name  now  his,  death  for  himself,  though  for  himself 
the  fear  was  less  than  for  the  other  two.  That  anything  but 
death  could  bring  back  those  days  and  nights  of  agony  through 
which  he  had  once  passed,  he  did  not  and  he  could  not  believe. 
Even  as  he  sat  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  tower  on  that  sum 
mer's  morning  he  asked  himself  the  question,  and  the  answer 
was  the  same  as  ever.  Why,  indeed,  should  he  not  be  left  in 
peace?  Why  should  he  even  expect  the  possibility  of  evil? 
Evil  might  come,  assuredly,  but  it  must  come  in  some  sudden, 
violent  and  unexpected  shape  out  of  the  present,  by  accident, 
by  illness,  by  death.  The  terrors  of  the  past  were  with  the 
past,  and  Greif  was  too  strong,  and  young,  and  happy  to  expect 
misfortune  in  the  present.  He  sat  there,  peacefully  gazing  at 
the  green  feathers  of  the  firs  and  at  the  circling  swallows, 
and  almost  laughing  to  scorn  the  possibility  of  a  pain  that  was 
already  near  him,  that  was  with  him  now,  as  Hilda's  graceful 
figure  emerged  from  the  door  of  the  tower  and  stood  beside 
him. 

Her  face  was  still  a  little  pale,  but  she  looked  almost  super- 
naturally  beautiful  in  her  gravity.  It  is  possible  that  if  she 
had  been  transported  into  the  midst  of  the  world,  of  that  com 
pany  of  half-morbid,  half-enthusiastic  beings  which  we  define 
commonly  as  society,  she  might  not  have  pleased  those  tired 
critics  altogether  as  well  as  one  of  themselves,  though  she  would 
assuredly  have  surprised  them  exceedingly,  and  perhaps  when 


GREIFENSTEIN.  351 

she  began  to  grow  old  they  would  remember  that  they  had  never 
seen  anything  like  her.  But  here,  in  her  natural  surroundings, 
she  was  magnificent.  She  was  dressed  all  in  white,  and  the 
delicate  shades  of  her  colouring  did  not  suffer  by  the  contrast, 
but  seemed  more  perfect  and  harmonious,  blended  as  all  the 
tints  were  by  the  all-pervading  light  of  the  clear  mountain  air 
in  the  thin,  vapoury  blue  shadows  of  the  old  tower.  And  the 
rough  grey  stone  was  a  harmonious  background  for  her  beauty 
and  its  rugged  surface  showed  more  completely  the  exquisite 
outlines  of  her  face  and  figure.  Greif  saw  her  beside  him,  and 
could  not  repress  his  admiration. 

"Hilda — how  beautiful  you  are!"  he  exclaimed,  springing 
to  his  feet  and  putting  his  arms  about  her. 

It  seemed  as  though  her  perfection  had  suddenly  become 
visible  out  of  the  dream  of  his  cloudless  happiness.  She  smiled 
faintly  as  she  kissed  him,  so  faintly  that  he  was  surprised  and 
drew  back,  looking  into  her  face. 

"Has  anything  happened,  sweetheart?"  he  asked  anx 
iously.  "Is  anything  the  matter?  You  are  pale,  darling, 
tell  me  —  " 

"  Something  has  happened,  Greif,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  she 
said,  sitting  down  upon  the  long  stone  seat  that  ran  round  the 
base  of  the  tower,  and  touching  the  spot  beside  her  with  the  palm 
of  her  hand,  as  though  bidding  him  do  likewise. 

His  face  grew  grave  as  he  took  his  place  at  her  side,  still 
looking  into  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  something  that  pains  you,  dear  —  is  it  not  ?  "  he  asked 
tenderly. 

"  Because  it  will  pain  you,"  she  answered.  "You  must  listen 
to  my  story  patiently,  Greif,  for  it  is  not  easy  to  tell,  and  it  is 
not  easy  to  hear.  But  I  will  do  my  best,  for  it  is  best  to  tell 
it  all  quite  plainly  from  beginning  to  end,  is  it  not?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Greif  nervously.  "  Please  tell  me  all  quite 
frankly." 

"  It  is  about  your  father,  Greif  —  about  all  that  happened  on 
that  dreadful  night  at  Greifenstein.  Yes,  darling,  I  will  try 
and  be  quick.  You  know  when  — after  they  were  dead,  my 
mother  went  over,  and  did  what  she  could  until  you  came. 
You  know,  too,  that  the  house  was  full  of  servants,  whom  your 
father  was  always  changing  — you  sent  them  all  away  last  year. 
Well,  one  of  those  wretches  stole  — had  the  heart  to  steal  at 


352  GREIFEN  STEIN. 

that  fearful  time  —  a  coat  —  one  that  belonged  to  your  father  — 
indeed  —  "  she  hesitated. 

"And  you  have  found  it?"  asked  Greif,  whose  face  relaxed 
suddenly.  He  thought  it  was  but  a  common  theft,  and  was 
immensely  relieved. 

"  Yes,  we  have  found  it,"  continued  Hilda.  "  But  it  was  not 
a  common  coat,  dear  —  it  was  the  very  one  in  which  —  the  one 
he  had  on,  I  mean,  when  —  " 

"  I  understand,"  Greif  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Hilda  looked  away,  and  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  knee, 
making  an  effort  to  tell  her  story  connectedly.  She  knew  that 
it  would  be  far  better  that  Greif  should  be  prepared  by  the 
knowledge  of  the  details  which  it  would  be  hard  to  communicate 
to  him  afterwards. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  "  and  the  wretched  servant  took  it  to 
a  Jew  and  sold  it,  and  the  Jew  hid  it  —  I  suppose  because  he 
knew  it  was  stolen  —  and  long  afterwards,  only  a  very  few  days 
ago,  he  sold  it  to  Wastei  —  and  Wastei  gave  it  to  Berbel,  and 
Berbel  showed  it  to  me." 

"  Is  it  safe  ?  "  said  Greif,  almost  under  his  breath. 

"  Yes  —  quite  safe." 

"  Then  I  do  not  want  to  see  it  —  " 

"  I  have  not  told  you  all,  dear.  There  is  more.  If  it  had 
been  only  that  —  but  there  is  something  else.  The  coat  was 
torn  inside,  above  the  pocket,  so  that  something  that  had  been 
meant  for  the  pocket  had  slipped  down  inside.  It  was  very 
strange ! " 

"  Something  of  his  ?  " 

"  Of  his  —  for  you.  Oh,  Greif  —  it  is  the  letter  you  searched 
for  so  long  and  could  never  find !  " 

Greif's  face  turned  white  and  his  voice  was  thick  and  in 
distinct. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  he  tried  to  say,  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
receive  it. 

Without  another  word  Hilda  drew  the  sealed  envelope  from 
the  bosom  of  her  frock  and  gave  it  to  him,  not  daring  to  look  at 
him.  Then  she  rose  and  would  have  left  him  alone,  but  with 
one  hand  he  caught  hers  and  held  her  back. 

"  Together,  dear,"  he  almost  whispered. 

Greif  was  stunned  and  shocked.  It  seemed  as  though  the 
dead  man  had  risen  from  his  grave  to  deliver  his  message  him- 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  353 

self,  to  tell  his  own  story  and  reveal  his  own  secret.  With 
trembling  fingers  Greif  turned  the  envelope  over  and  over, 
scarcely  able  to  read  the  superscription  at  first,  then  glancing 
curiously  at  the  impress  on  the  seal,  doubting,  as  Hilda  had 
doubted,  that  it  was  perhaps  not  genuine.  But  his  memory 
told  him  the  truth.  He  knew  the  paper  well,  and  as  trivial 
details  come  before  the  mind  in  the  most  appalling  moments  of 
life,  so  he  remembered  instantly  the  whole  appearance  of  the 
library  at  Greifenstein,  the  table  with  the  huge  old  silver  ink 
stand,  the  rack  that  had  held  that  very  writing  paper,  the 
heavy,  clumsy  seal  that  had  sealed  that  envelope,  and  which 
always  lay  beside  the  blotter  and  next  to  the  sealing  wax.  It 
all  came  back  to  him  so  vividly  that,  even  if  the  letter  had 
been  a  forgery,  he  would  have  believed  it  genuine,  from  the 
mere  force  of  the  associations  it  evoked.  He  held  it  in  his 
hands  and  hesitated. 

Within  that  narrow  bit  of  folded  paper  was  contained  the 
secret  of  his  father's  death,  of  his  mother's  sudden  end,  of 
Rieseneck's  suicide.  He  had  not  a  doubt  of  it,  though  he  had 
not  realised  it  at  first.  A  sort  of  mist  veiled  his  eyes  and  dark 
ened  the  glorious  day.  It  seemed  so  strange  that  such  a  poor 
scrap  of  perishable  rag  should  hold  the  key  to  so  great  a  mystery, 
the  solution  to  such  a  fearful  question.  Within  that  cover  was 
a  sheet  of  paper  and  on  it  he  should  see  characters  traced  in  a 
familiar  hand.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  fancied  that  he  already 
saw  the  writing,  for  he  had  often  imagined  how  it  would  look, 
during  his  long  search.  Again  and  again  in  his  dreams,  he 
had  laid  his  hand  upon  that  envelope,  and  had  broken  the  seal 
and  had  read  those  short  words  of  tender  farewell  which  he  felt 
must  have  been  in  his  father's  heart  at  the  supreme  moment. 
And  now  he  held  the  reality  and  yet  he  shut  out  the  light  of 
day  in  order  to  call  up  the  fancy  that  had  so  often  consoled  his 
imagination.  But  the  reality  was  not  one  with  the  dreamland 
shadow.  In  the  one  there  had  been  only  words  of  love  and  sad 
regret,  in  this  real  letter  was  written  the  secret  whose  effects  had 
so  nearly  ruined  his  life,  a  secret  so  terrible,  that  had  Hilda 
guessed  it  she  would  have  thrust  the  cruel  message  from  the 
dead  into  the  flames,  rather  than  allow  it  to  live  and  stab  Greif 
to  the  heart. 

Hilda  did  not  understand  his  hesitation,  though  she  knew  as 
well  as  he  himself  that  the  yet  unread  words  contained  the  solu- 


354  GREIFENSTEIN. 

tion  of  the  great  problem.  But  she  sat  patiently  by  his  side, 
her  white  hand  resting  on  his  shoulder,  her  anxious  face  turned 
towards  his,  her  lips  already  parted,  as  though  but  awaiting  her 
breath  to  speak  words  of  consolation  for  the  suffering  that  had 
not  yet  begun. 

Greif  roused  himself,  as  though  ashamed  of  the  emotion  he 
had  shown,  though  indeed  he  had  seemed  outwardly  calm 
enough.  He  pressed  his  lips  together  and  ran  his  finger  through 
the  upper  side  of  the  envelope,  so  as  not  to  break  the  seal.  His 
hands  did  not  tremble  any  longer,  and  with  the  action  all  his 
dreams  vanished  in  the  broad  light  of  the  summer  morning. 
Carefully  he  withdrew  the  sheet  and  spread  it  out. 

"  Shall  I  go,  sweetheart?  Would  you  rather  be  alone  ?"  Hilda 
asked  once  more. 

"No,  darling.  Read  it  with  me  —  let  us  read  it  together," 
he  answered  quietly,  as  though  he  were  speaking  in  some  sacred 
presence. 

Hilda  bent  her  golden  head  forward  until  it  was  close  to  his, 
and  their  cheeks  touched  as  they  read  together  the  contents. 

"  My  dear  Greif,  my  beloved  son  —  first  of  all,  I  remind  you 
that  you  are  a  man  and  a  brave  one,  and  I  solemnly  enjoin  upon 
you  to  act  like  one,  and  to  put  your  trust  in  God.  A  great  mis 
fortune  has  befallen  you,  and  at  the  moment  of  death  I  look  to 
you  to  bear  its  burden  in  a  manner  worthy  of  a  German 
gentleman.  Heaven  will  certainly  atone  to  you  for  the  injus 
tice  of  a  cruel  destiny.  Your  mother  was  the  lawful  wife 
of  my  brother  Rieseneck.  She  has  deceived  me  for  five  and 
twenty  years,  until  his  sudden  coming  revealed  to  me  all  her 
crimes  within  an  hour.  You  are  therefore  illegitimate  and  name 
less,  and  not  one  penny  of  my  fortune  is  yours.  I  am  utterly 
dishonoured  by  this  enormous  wickedness.  My  brother  and  I 
have  done  justice  upon  the  woman  Clara  Kurtz,  Freiherrin  von 
Rieseneck,  after  receiving  her  full  confession,  and  nothing  re 
mains  for  us  but  to  die  decently.  As  for  you,  I  need  not  point 
out  your  course.  You  will  declare  the  truth  to  my  cousin 
Therese  von  Sigmundskron,  who  is  the  sole  heir  to  all  my  for 
tune  and  estates,  being  next  of  kin  in  the  line  of  the  Greifen- 
steins.  You  will  renounce  your  engagement  to  marry  Hilda 
von  Sigmundskroli.  You  will  enter  the  ranks  and  serve  your 
king  as  a  private  soldier,  which  is  the  only  course  open  to  a 


GREIFENSTEIN.  355 

penniless  gentleman.  I  know  you  too  well  to  think  you  will 
hesitate  a  moment.  My  brother  leaves  a  son  by  his  wife,  who 
goes  by  the  name  of  Rex,  and  to  whom  he  is  now  writing. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  student  of  whom  you  have  spoken  often  to  me 
lately.  He  is  your  brother  as  Rieseneck  is  mine,  and  he  is  rich 
by  his  father's  death.  But  you  will  accept  nothing  from  him, 
nor  from  any  one  else  except  your  sovereign,  who,  if  he  learns 
your  story,  may  help  you  if  he  be  graciously  pleased  to  do  so. 

"  My  son,  I  am  about  to  die.  I  have  taken  the  law  into  my 
own  hands  and  I  must  pay  the  penalty  by  the  only  hand  to 
which  I  can  submit.  If  I  have  been  at  fault  towards  you,  if  I 
have  been  deceived  by  this  woman  through  any  carelessness  of 
mine,  I,  your  father,  implore  your  forgiveness  at  this  final 
moment.  And  so  I  leave  you.  May  the  God  of  our  fathers 
protect  and  bless  you,  and  bring  you  to  a  nobler  end  than  mine. 
Though  you  are  nameless  and  penniless,  you  can  yet  be  a  Chris 
tian  man ;  you  can  be  true,  you  can  be  brave,  and  you  can  give 
your  life,  which  is  all  you  have  to  give,  to  your  king  and  your 
country.  Farewell.  —  Your  father, 

"  HUGO  VON  GREIFENSTEIN." 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  both  Hilda  and  Greif  read  this  long 
letter  to  the  end  before  they  paused,  almost  before  they  under 
stood  what  it  meant.  Their  two  faces  were  livid,  as  they  sat  in 
the  shadow  of  the  tower,  and  gazed  at  each  other  with  wild  and 
staring  eyes.  The  cold  sweat  of  horror  stood  upon  Greif 's  fore 
head,  like  the  drops  of  moisture  on  a  marble  statue  when  the 
south  wind  blows. 

But  there  was  a  vast  difference  between  Greif 's  condition  now 
and  his  state  when  he  had  broken  down  under  the  burden  of 
his  emotions  eighteen  months  earlier.  The  calm  and  peaceful 
life  had  strengthened  his  character  and  fortified  his  nerves,  and 
though  Hilda  expected  every  moment  that  he  would  sink  down 
as  he  had  done  on  that  memorable  day,  almost  unconscious  with 
pain,  he  nevertheless  sat  upright  in  his  seat,  bracing  himself,  as 
it  were,  against  the  huge  wave  of  his  misfortunes,  which  had 
risen  from  the  depths  of  the  tomb  to  overtake  him  and  annihi 
late  his  happiness  in  a  single  moment.  His  comprehension 
seemed  to  grow  clearer,  and  he  grasped  the  whole  frightful 
hopelessness  of  his  enormous  calamity. 

Hilda  understood  it  too,  in  a  measure,  but  she  thought  only 


356  GREIFENSTEIN. 

of  his  suffering,  and  not  of  any  possible  consequences  to  herself. 
With  womanly  tenderness,  she  took  her  handkerchief,  and 
pressed  the  cool  linen  to  his  wet  brow,  while  she  could  see  his 
broad  chest  heaving  and  hear  the  dull,  short  sound  of  his  breath 
between  his  grinding  teeth.  Her  arms  went  round  him,  and 
tried  to  draw  him  to  her,  but  he  sat  upright  like  a  figure  of 
stone,  unbending  as  a  block  of  granite. 

"  Greif !  "  she  cried  at  last.     "  Speak  to  me,  dear  one  —  " 

"How  can  I  speak  to  you,  whom  I  have  dishonoured?"  he 
asked,  slowly  turning  his  head  towards  her  and  yet  trying  to 
draw  back  from  her  embrace. 

"Dishonoured  me!     Ah,  Greif  —  " 

"  Yes —  Hilda,  I  am  no  more  your  husband,  than  my  wretched 
father  was  husband  to  the  creature  who  bore  me  —  who  ruined 
him  and  me  — 

"Greif  —  sweetheart,  beloved,  are  you  mad?" 

"  Mad  ?  No  !  The  merciful  unhinging  of  that  rack  of  toi'- 
ture  which  should  be  my  mind,  God  has  denied  me.  Mad?  It 
were  better,  for  your  sake.  Mad  ?  I  know  not  what  I  say. 
You  are  not  my  wife,  nor  Sigmund,  Sigmund,  nor  I  Sigmund- 
skron,  nor  Greifenstein,  nor  Hilda's  husband,  nor  anything  that 
I  wot  of  —  save  a  nameless  vagabond  who  has  dishonoured 
Hilda—" 

"  Greif  —  for  the  love  of  Heaven  —  " 

"  Ay,  I  must  speak,  and  quickly.  It  is  better  that  you  should 
know  all  the  truth  from  these  lips,  foul  from  their  birth  —  that 
have  kissed  yours,  though  they  be  not  worthy  to  eat  the  dust  in 
your  path  —  these  lips  that  kissed  that  vile  thing  they  called  my 
mother,  and  that  spoke  words  of  sorrow,  and  uttered  cries  of 
grief,  at  a  death  too  decent  for  such  a  being  —  no,  let  me  speak, 
take  your  pure  hands  from  me  —  I  am  not  your  husband  !  By 
a  name  that  was  never  mine,  I  took  your  name  —  thank  God 
you  have  it  still!  Your  marriage  is  no  marriage,  your  child  is 
nameless  as  I  am  —  do  you  know  how  the  law  would  call  me? 
One  Greif,  the  bastard  son  of  a  certain  Herr  von  Greifenstein 
and  of  a  woman  known  as  Clara  Kurtz  —  that  is  the  designation 
of  all  my  honours,  that  is  the  description  of  your  child's  father, 
of  the  man  you  have  called  husband  for  twelve  months  and  one 
day !  The  curse  of  God  in  Heaven  on  that  wretch  —  she  was 
not  woman  —  may  the  furies  of  hell  not  tire  of  tormenting  her 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  357 

accursed  soul  throughout  all  ages  —  yes  —  I  mean  my  mother, 
I  mean  every  word  I  say  —  I  would  say  more  if  I  knew  how  ! 
She  has  done  all  this  —  she  brought  my  father  to  his  death,  my 
brave  old  father,  whom  I  loved,  and  she  has  brought  me  to 
shame  worse  than  death  ;  and  worse  than  shame  or  death  to 
me,  she  has  brought  dishonour  upon  the  only  creature  left  me 
to  love  —  oh,  death  was  made  too  easy  for  her  by  those  merciful 
men,  they  were  a  thousand  times  too  pitiful,  too  kind  !  " 

He  paused,  trembling  in  every  limb  with  the  wrathful  passion 
for  which  words  alone  were  no  satisfaction.  Hilda  was  startled 
at  the  violence  of  his  language,  and  alarmed  by  the  furious  look 
in  his  eyes,  but  actual  fear  was  too  foreign  to  her  nature  to 
influence  her.  She  understood,  now,  however,  what  had  escaped 
her  before,  namely  that  he  believed  their  marriage  to  have  been 
no  marriage  at  all  in  law.  Then  her  love  spoke  out,  softly  at 
first  and  with  a  gentle  accent. 

"  Greif ,  my  beloved  —  let  them  rest  in  their  graves  !  They 
cannot  harm  us." 

"  Not  harm  us  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Do  you  know  that  every  word 
I  have  told  you  is  true  —  that  the  curse  of  that  dead  woman 
will  pursue  us  to  the  end  ?  Do  you  understand  that  we  are  not 
married  man  and  wife  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  true,"  answered  Hilda.  "  God  made  us  man 
and  wife  —  " 

"  Ay — but  the  law  —  " 

"  What  is  the  law  to  us  ?    Do  we  not  love  ?    Is  not  that  law  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  in  heaven  —  " 

"  And  it  is  on  earth.  It  is  love  that  has  made  us  what  we 
are,  by  Heaven's  help.  It  is  neither  man  nor  law,  for  my  love 
is  beyond  all  laws  or  men,  save  you  !  And  this  thing,  what  is 
it?  A  voice  from  the  dead  cries  in  our  ears  that  we  are  not 
what  we  are,  what  I  know  we  are,  because  a  deed  of  shame  was 
done  long  years  ago  of  which  we  knew  nothing,  nor  guessed 
anything  until  this  moment.  Is  that  justice  ;  is  that  the  law 
you  fear  and  respect,  the  law  you  will  allow  to  come  between 
you  and  me?  There  is  a  better  law  than  that,  my  beloved,  the 
law  that  binds  me  to  you  with  bands  of  steel,  for  good  or  ill, 
for  shame  or  fame,  for  honour  or  dishonour — " 

"  Ah  —  the  dishonour  of  it,  Hilda,  the  dishonour  ! " 

"The  dishonour  of  what?    Of  a  bit  of  paper,  of  a  dead 


358  GREIFENSTEIN. 

woman's  sin  and  miserable  death?  Is  that  all?  Or  is  it  for 
name,  or  no  name?  And  if  it  be  that,  what  then?  Do  you 
think  that  if  you  were  but  a  trooper  in  the  ranks,  calling  your 
self  by  any  meaningless  syllables  that  it  crossed  your  mind  to 
choose,  if  you  were  the  poorest  soldier  that  ever  drew  sword, 
do  you  think  that  I  would  not  follow  you,  and  work  for  you 
and  slave  for  you,  and  live  as  I  could,  or  starve,  rather  than 
leave  you  for  one  day,  a  thousand  times  rather  than  be  Hilda 
von  Sigmundskron  and  heir  to  all  the  wealth  of  the  Greifen- 
steins,  as  that  thing  says  I  am  ?  Could  all  the  laws  you  talk  of 
prevent  me  from  doing  that  ?  And  you  talk  of  my  dishonour 
through  you !  I  would  beg  for  you,  I  would  toil  for  you,  I 
would  wear  out  my  body  and  my  soul  to  get  you  bread  —  oh,  I 
would  almost  sell  the  hope  of  heaven  for  your  dear  sake !  And 
you  say  that  because  you  have  found  this  paper  I  am  not  your 
wife!  A  bit  of  paper,  Greif,  between  you  and  me  —  a  bit  of 
paper  on  the  one  hand  and  my  love  on  the  other,  with  all  it 
means,  with  all  that  harm  or  pain  to  you  could  make  it  mean, 
does  make  it  mean,  now  and  for  ever!  Oh,  my  beloved,  my 
beloved,  have  you  loved  me  so  long  without  knowing  what  love 
means  ?  " 

She  would  have  twined  her  arm  about  his  neck,  but  he  hid 
his  face  in  his  hands  and  would  not  move.  To  himself,  he 
seemed  the  basest  of  mankind,  absolutely  innocent  as  he  was 
of  every  thought  or  intention  of  evil.  He  cursed  his  weakness 
in  having  yielded  long  ago,  in  having  broken  down  into  uncon 
sciousness,  to  wake  again,  weak  and  enfeebled  by  his  illness,  no 
longer  able  to  break  through  the  spell  that  drew  him  towards 
her.  He  called  himself,  in  his  heart,  a  traitor,  a  coward,  a 
weakling,  a  miserable  wretch  without  strength,  or  faith,  or 
honour.  There  were  no  bounds  to  his  self-abasement,  no  depths 
to  which  he  did  not  sink  in  his  self-judgment.  He  recalled  that 
morning  eighteen  months  ago  when  he  had  come  over  to  Sig 
mundskron  to  fight  the  battle  of  honoui',  he  remembered  the 
agony  of  that  bitter  struggle,  the  triumph  of  his  heart  when  he 
had  made  the  last  desperate  effort  and  had  gone  forth  victori 
ous,  though  the  fever  was  already  on  him,  and  he  could  scarcely 
see  the  road  under  his  feet.  He  reproached  himself  bitterly 
with  having  yielded  after  winning  such  a  fight,  with  having 
stooped  to  do  the  bidding  of  love,  after  having  trampled  down 


GREIFENSTEIN.  359 

every  loving  instinct  and  every  tender  thought  within  him,  in 
the  proud  consciousness  of  doing  right  for  right's  sake  only. 
If  he  had  but  been  brave  still  when  his  body  was  so  weak,  all 
that  now  was  could  not  have  been.  He  would  have  cared  for 
neither  name  nor  fame,  still  less  for  fortune,  without  Hilda. 
But  he  had  yielded,  he  had  grafted  the  infamy  of  his  birth 
upon  the  spotless  line  of  her  he  loved,  and  fate  had  done  the 
rest.  The  relentless  destiny  which  had  overtaken  his  father, 
his  mother  and  his  brother,  had  tracked  him  down  and  struck 
him  within  the  boundaries  of  the  false  paradise  his  weakness 
had  built  up.  He  said  to  himself  that  he,  too,  must  die,  for  he 
was  the  last  and  the  lowest  of  living  men. 

"Will  you  not  be  persuaded,  Greif?"  asked  Hilda,  after  a 
long  pause.  "  Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  right,  and  that  you  are 
wrong  — wrong  only  in  this?" 

"I  see  nothing,"  he  answered,  "unless  it  be  that  I  have 
brought  the  most  irretrievable  dishonour  upon  all  I  love,  as  dis 
honour  was  brought  upon  me  by  him  who  loved  me  best." 

"And  if  I  refuse  to  be  dishonoured,  what  then?" 

"  What  then  ?  I  do  not  know  what  then,"  he  answered  half 
absently,  not  understanding  her  thoughts. 

"  Will  you  dishonour  me  in  spite  of  yourself,  in  spite  of  my 
love?" 

He  did  not  answer  this  time,  but  buried  his  face  in  his  hands 
once  more,  as  though  trying  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  her  from 
his  aching  eyes.  The  tones  of  Hilda's  voice  rose  and  fell  faintly, 
as  if  they  reached  him  through  some  thick  substance  that  dulled 
their  distinctness.  At  first  he  scarcely  knew  what  she  was  say 
ing,  and  he  hardly  cared. 

"  And  if  my  love  will  not  move  you,  then,  I  will  tell  you  more," 
she  said,  with  a  strong  and  rising  intonation.  "  I  tell  you  that 
you  have  not  dishonoured  me,  because  I  will  not  be  dishonoured. 
You  and  I  have  done  right  before  God,  and  before  man  until 
this  day,  and  if  there  be  wrong  now  it  shall  be  right  and  I  will 
make  it  right.  I,  Hilda  von  Sigmundskron,  am  your  wife.  I, 
Hilda  von  Sigmundskron,  will  not  have  it  told  to  the  world  that 
I  am  a  disgraced  woman,  that  I  am  married  to  a  nameless  being, 
the  mother  of  a  nameless  child.  Your  wife  I  am,  and  you  are 
Sigmundskron  and  Greifenstein,  and  so  you  shall  live  and  die, 
for  I  will  make  it  law  !  There  goes  the  law  !  Prove  that  you 


360  GEEIFENSTEUST. 

are   a   bastard   if   you   can,  and    that   I   am   a   dishonoured 
woman !  " 

With  a  movement  like  a  falcon  swooping  to  the  earth  and 
soaring  again  to  heaven,  she  had  snatched  the  fallen  letter  from 
the  ground.  Before  she  had  finished  speaking,  her  desperate 
fingers  had  torn  the  paper  to  tiniest  scraps  and  the  light  shreds 
were  floating  fast  before  the  summer  breeze,  like  snow-flakes  in 
the  sun,  to  the  deep  abyss  below  the  castle  wall. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  361 


CHAPTEE  XXIX. 

GEEIF  sprang  to  his  feet  and  seized  Hilda  by  the  wrist,  his 
eyes  and  his  whole  expression  full  of  horror  and  dismay. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  What  you  could  not  do,"  answered  Hilda  boldly. 

The  colour  had  come  back  to  her  face,  and  the  light  to  her 
eyes,  and  she  met  his  gaze  calmly  and  courageously.  For  some 
seconds  neither  moved,  but  stood  looking  at  each  other,  he 
holding  her  tightly,  she  making  no  effort  at  resistance.  Greif's 
first  impression  was  that  his  wife  had  committed  an  act  of 
sacrilege  as  well  as  a  serious  offence  against  the  law.  She  had 
explained  her  meaning  clearly  enough  when  she  tore  up  the 
letter,  and  he  had  understood  all  the  consequences  of  the  act 
at  once.  It  would  be  useless  to  attempt  a  search  for  the  frag 
ments  of  paper,  which  were  already  scattered  on  the  breeze  and 
floating  down  to  the  deep  gorge.  So  far  as  the  law  was  con 
cerned,  Hilda  had  spoken  the  truth.  Not  a  shred  of  evidence 
remained  to  prove  that  he  was  not  all  to-day  that  he  had  been 
yesterday,  in  law  as  well  as  in  fact.  But  there  was  gone  with 
that  evidence  something  precious  to  Greif,  something  which  it 
had  hurt  him  desperately  to  see  torn  to  scraps  and  flung  away. 
He  had  loved  his  father  with  all  his  heart,  and  the  letter  had 
contained  his  father's  last  solemn  blessing,  of  which  not  a  single 
word  remained  whole ;  not  even  if  one  of  those  bits  of  floating 
paper  that  whirled  and  floated  down  the  precipice  had  preserved 
a  syllable  of  the  message,  was  it  in  the  power  of  human  skill 
or  strength  to  save  it  from  reaching  the  bottom  of  the  abyss 
and  being  swept  away  to  the  distant  river  by  the  tumbling 
stream. 

Nevertheless  Hilda's  quick  and  decisive  action  had  produced 
the  effect  of  a  salutary  shock  upon  her  husband's  mind  and 
nerves.  She,  as  usual,  felt  that  absolute  certainty  of  having 
done  right  which  was  a  part  of  her  strong  character. 


362  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  You  have  destroyed  it  all,"  said  Greif  at  last  in  a  reproach 
ful  tone.  "  You  have  left  no  two  words  together  —  " 

"  And  I  am  glad.     I  would  do  it  again,  if  need  were." 

"  It  cannot  be  undone,"  Greif  answered  gloomily.  He  dropped 
her  wrist  and  began  to  walk  slowly  backwards  and  forwards  in 
the  shadow  of  the  tower. 

"  How  could  you  do  it !  How  could  you  do  it !  "  he  repeated 
in  a  low  voice,  as  though  speaking  to  himself  and  without 
looking  at  her. 

"  It  was  the  only  thing  to  be  done,"  she  answered  firmly. 

"But  the  injustice  of  it  —  the  illegality  —  what  shall  I  call 
it  ?  "  he  stopped  in  his  walk. 

"  Call  it  what  you  please,"  replied  Hilda  scornfully.  "  It  does 
not  exist  any  more.  It  may  not  have  been  a  legal  act,  but  it 
was  an  act  of  justice,  whatever  you  may  say ;  of  the  truest 
justice,  and  I  would  do  it  again." 

"Justice!"  exclaimed  Greif  bitterly.  "If  justice  were  done, 
I  should  be —  " 

"Stop,"  said  Hilda  in  a  determined  tone.  "Justice  is  done 
and  you  are  here,  and  you  are  what  you  were  yesterday  and 
shall  be  to-morrow,  not  for  me  only,  but  for  the  whole  world. 
That  is  the  only  justice  I  can  understand." 

"  Hilda,  it  is  wrong,"  cried  Greif.  "  I  know  it  is.  I  have  110 
right  to  throw  off  what  has  been  brought  upon  me,  what  is 
proved  so  clearly  —  it  is  a  wrong  and  a  great  wrong,  and  it 
must  be  repaired." 

"A  wrong  to  whom?"  Hilda  asked,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"Whose  would  your  fortune  be  if  you  renounced  it  for  the 
sake  of  that  thing  I  have  destroyed  ?  It  would  be  my  mother's 
—  mine,  would  it  not  ?  The  letter  said  so.  And  the  name  of 
Greifenstein,  to  whom  would  it  go,  if  you  proclaimed  through 
the  whole  land  that  you  had  no  right  to  it?  To  no  one.  It 
would  end.  No  one  would  ever  bear  it,  for  no  one  has  a  right 
to  dispose  of  it  except,  perhaps,  my  mother  —  " 

"  Yes  —  your  mother  —  " 

"  My  mother !  Would  you  break  her  heart  by  telling  her 
that  she  has  given  my  father's  name  to — " 

Hilda  stopped  short  in  her  speech. 

"  To  me ! "  exclaimed  Greif  in  the  bitterest  self-reproach. 
"Oh,  the  shame  of  it,  Hilda,  the  shame  of  it  all!  You  are 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  363 

right  in  that  —  to  think  that  she  has  given  the  name  she  loves  to 
one  who  has  no  right  to  any  name  — it  would  break  her  heart  —  " 

"  Then  let  her  never  know  it,  nor  guess  it,  nor  dream  that  it 
is  possible,  never,  never,  so  long  as  she  lives !  " 

"  It  is  not  for  her  only  —  it  is  for  you,  Hilda  !  That  is  the 
worst  to  bear —  the  shame,  the  shame  !  " 

"  For  me  ?  "  The  two  words  came  slowly  and  distinctly  from 
her  lips,  as  though  she  were  trying  to  make  clear  to  him  the 
enormity  of  his  speech.  Then  she  drew  herself  up  proudly  to 
her  full  height,  and  a  wonderful  smile  illuminated  her  face. 

"  Not  for  rne,  Greif,"  she  said.  "  There  is  no  shame  for  me. 
In  your  love,  I  am  above  all  earthly  shame." 

There  was  something  in  her  manner  and  in  the  accent  of  her 
speech  that  affected  Greif  very  suddenly.  He  was  gradually 
growing  more  calm  and  better  able  to  reason,  as  well  as  to 
realise  the  splendid  depth  of  his  wife's  love.  There  was  a  ring 
in  her  voice  that  told  him  more  than  her  words  could  tell. 
He  came  to  her,  and  took  her  hand,  and  kissed  it,  almost 
devotionally. 

"  You  are  above  all  earthly  women,"  he  said  simply. 

"I?  No.  Any  woman  would  do  as  much,  and  it  is  so  little. 
If  you  would  only  think,  dear,  it  is  so  very  little  —  and  it  is  for 
myself,  too.  Could  I  do  anything  else  ?  Could  any  woman  do 
less,  even  the  most  selfish  ?  " 

"I  know  none  who  wrould  do  as  much,"  Greif  answered. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you,  that  it  was  for  my  own  sake  that  I 
destroyed  the  letter,  that  I  would  not  be  dishonoured,  that 
I  would  not  have  the  world  say  —  what  it  might  say  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  all,  Hilda." 

"It  is  all  —  except  my  love,  and  that  is  all  indeed,  all  there 
is  for  me." 

"  Ay,  that  is  it,  that  is  it !  And  if  these  hideous  crimes  are 
never  known  to  any  one  but  you  and  me,  can  you  live  beside 
me,  day  by  day,  year  by  year,  and  never  feel  one  pang,  one 
regret,  one  little  thrust  of  shame  ?  I  know  you  love  me,  but 
that  is  too  much  to  ask  of  any  love.  I  know  that  you  mean 
what  you  say,  but  it  is  too  much  for  man  or  woman  to  say  and 
mean.  Think  of  it,  Hilda,  think  of  it  all  — there  are  such 
things  here  as  angels  could  not  forget !  " 

"  I  love  you  very,  very  much  —  my  memory  has  no  place  for 
any  other  things." 


364  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

She  twined  her  arm  about  his  neck  as  they  stood  together, 
and  she  laid  her  golden  head  upon  his  shoulder,  while  her 
bright  eyes  looked  upwards  with  a  sidelong  glance  into  his 
face.  But  his  cheek  was  pale  and  cold,  and  he  gazed  sternly 
out  at  the  distant  crags,  as  though  he  would  not  see  her.  The 
unbearable  conviction  of  disgrace  was  upon  him,  hopeless,  end 
less,  embracing  all  his  existence  and  already  extending  back  in 
his  imagination  to  all  his  earlier  youth.  Her  hands  burned 
him,  her  touch  was  like  the  shock  of  death,  as  the  old  mystics 
used  to  say  the  draught  of  life  would  be  to  the  lips  of  the 
unprepared  and  the  impure. 

"  Let  me  go,"  he  said  gently.     "  I  cannot  bear  it." 

But  she  would  not.  Instead  of  one  arm,  both  went  round 
him.  He  felt  as  if  her  strong  embrace  would  lift  him  from  his 
feet,  out  of  himself,  to  bear  him  away  from  all  trouble  and  woe 
to  endless  peace. 

"I  will  not  let  you  go  —  neither  now  nor  ever,  neither  in  this 
world  nor  the  next." 

He  knew  that  tone  of  hers,  deep,  ringing  and  clear,  and  he 
knew  that  she  was  desperate.  Then  the  conflict  began  in  his 
own  soul,  the  struggle  between  that  deep  conviction  of  law  and 
right,  which  was  the  foundation  of  his  character,  and  that 
honest  and  all-sacrificing  love  that  filled  his  heart. 

"  Give  me  time  to  think  what  I  am  doing,"  he  said. 

He  sat  down  upon  the  seat  in  his  old  place  and  bent  down, 
pressing  his  temples  with  his  hands.  He  had  spoken  very 
simply  out  of  his  great  distress,  for  he  needed  time  to  think  of 
what  he  was  doing,  and  of  what  he  must  yet  do.  All  was 
vague  and  moving  in  the  vision  of  his  mind,  like  a  distant 
landscape  seen  through  the  trembling,  heated  air  at  noontide 
on  a  summer's  day.  Nothing  was  distinct,  save  his  love  for 
Hilda  on  the  one  side,  and  upon  the  other,  the  black  shadow  of 
his  awful  disgrace. 

"  Think,  my  beloved,  if  you  will,"  said  Hilda  softly.  "  You 
will  but  think  what  I  have  thought  already." 

Perhaps  he  felt,  even  then,  that  she  was  right,  but  he  could 
not  so  soon  be  comforted,  nor  put  aside  in  a  moment  what  had 
presented  itself  so  strongly  as  an  inexorable  duty.  At  that 
juncture  a  cunning  man  of  law  could  have  persuaded  him  more 
easily  than  the  woman  he  loved  more  than  all  the  world  besides. 
As  had  happened  before,  in  the  old  days,  that  love  appeared  to 


GRBIFEN  STEIN.  365 

him  in  the  light  of  a  temptation,  beautiful  as  the  broad  sun, 
eloquent  as  sweetest  music.  But  there  was  this  difference,  now 
that  the  opposite  course  was  not  as  plain  as  it  had  been  then. 
Instead  of  a  straight  path,  he  saw  but  a  confused  medley  of 
conflicting  ideas,  of  which  the  whole  sum  represented  to  his 
mind  a  mysterious  notion  of  a  necessary  sacrifice,  but  in  which 
it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  the  discriminating  point,  the 
centre  of  action,  the  goal  of  duty.  In  the  first  place,  he  recog 
nised  out  of  this  chaos,  his  father's  injunction  to  act  like  a 
Christian  man,  to  give  up  all  that  was  not  his,  to  lay  aside  the 
name  he  had  borne  and  to  go  forth  into  the  world  with  nothing 
but  his  own  courage  and  perseverance  as  his  weapons.  That  was 
clear  enough.  If  the  letter  had  come  into  his  hands  imme 
diately,  as  it  had  been  intended  that  it  should,  he  would  have 
fulfilled  his  father's  last  commands  bravely  in  every  detail  of 
their  spirit.  Even  if  he  had  received  the  message  on  the  eve 
of  his  marriage,  after  he  had  begun  to  call  himself  Sigmund- 
skron,  even  then  he  would  have  done  the  same ;  and  though  it 
would  have  been  mortal  agony,  it  would  have  been  easy  to  do, 
so  far  as  the  mere  execution  of  it  was  concerned.  He  would 
have  gone  to  Frau  von  Sigmundskron,  and  would  have  told 
her  the  truth,  showing  her  the  letter,  and  taking  the  conse 
quences.  No  woman  alive,  in  such  a  case,  would  have  hesitated 
a  moment,  he  thought.  Hilda's  mother  would  certainly  not 
have  had  the  least  doubt  how  to  act,  for  she  would  have  died 
rather  than  give  her  daughter  to  a  man  of  illegitimate  birth. 
She  would  have  offered  him  his  fortune,  no  doubt,  for  she  was 
a  noble  and  generous  woman,  but  he  would  have  refused  to 
take  anything.  That  at  least  would  not  have  cost  him  a  pang. 
As  for  the  rest,  his  course  would  have  been  clear  enough. 

But  now,  it  was  a  very  different  matter.  His  conscience  still 
told  him  to  go  to  Frau  von  Sigmundskron  and  tell  all,  but  the 
consideration  of  the  consequences  appalled  him.  He  knew  better 
even  than  Hilda  herself,  what  a  sacrifice  the  good  lady  had  made 
in  regard  to  the  name,  and  what  importance  she  attached  to  it. 
She  was  perfectly  happy  in  the  existing  condition  of  things ;  to 
tell  her  would  be  to  destroy  her  happiness  for  ever,  to  the  last 
day  of  her  life.  Greif  felt  that  if  he  were  in  her  place  he  should 
not  want  to  know  the  truth,  since  all  reparation  was  now  utterly 
impossible.  And  yet,  to  conceal  it  looked  like  a  crime,  or  at  least 
like  an  action  of  bad  faith.  Could  he  meet  the  white-haired 


366  GREIFENSTEIN. 

lady  who  loved  him  so  well  and  who  had  built  such  hopes  upon 
him,  could  he  meet  her  daily,  and  call  her  mother,  as  she  loved 
to  be  called,  and  yet  feel  that  he  was  deceiving  her,  that  he  had 
denied  the  name  she  had  given  him,  and  that  he  was  living  in 
possession  of  all  that  the  law  made  hers  ?  It  might  be  true 
that  all  would  be  Hilda's  some  day,  and  that  in  the  end  no 
harm  would  be  effected  because  it  would  go  to  Hilda's  son. 
But  the  fortune  was  not  Hilda's  yet,  and  she  to  whom  it  really 
belonged,  who  had  really  the  power  to  control  all,  and  to  turn 
Greif  and  her  own  daughter  from  home  and  hearth  if  she 
pleased,  was  to  all  intents  dependent  upon  the  generosity 
of  both.  Though  she  might  be  made  to  accept  much,  yet 
it  seemed  a  positive  wrong  that  she  should  be  allowed  to  feel 
that  she  was  receiving  favours  when  she  was  in  reality  confer 
ring  them. 

Greif  therefore  should  go  to  her,  and  tell  his  story,  and 
acknowledge  that  everything  was  hers  and  that  he  was  beholden 
to  her  charity  for  the  bread  he  ate  at  her  table.  He  had  the 
courage  to  do  so,  and  he  would  do  it,  if  it  seemed  wholly  right. 
But  if  he  thus  satisfied  his  love  of  justice,  he  must  also  do  her 
an  injury  of  a  very  different  kind.  It  would  be  cruel  to  disclose 
the  truth.  Even  Hilda  had  said  that  it  would  break  her 
mother's  heart  if  she  were  told  that  she  had  given  what  she 
most  prized  to  a  nameless  bastard.  Hilda  had  not  said  the 
word,  but  it  had  been  in  her  mind,  nevertheless.  And  Frau 
von  Sigmundskron  had  given  more  than  that,  for  she  had 
bestowed  upon  him  her  only  daughter.  Should  he  make 
her  declining  years  miserable  with  the  shame  that  was  upon 
him,  in  order  to  give  her  money,  or  should  he  keep  what  was 
hers  in  order  that  she  might  end  her  life  in  happiness  and  peace  ? 
It  was  a  case  of  doing  evil  that  good  might  come. 

When  such  a  question  arises  there  can  be  but  one  answer. 
The  good  to  be  obtained  must  be  immense  and  the  evil  must  be 
relatively  very  small.  If  such  a  position  could  be  imagined,  a 
man  would  be  justified  in  lying,  stealing,  or  doing  almost  any 
thing  which  could  only  hurt  himself,  for  the  sake  of  saving  a 
nation,  of  preserving  his  country  from  destruction.  Perhaps  he 
would  not  be  wrong,  if  it  were  to  save  a  thousand  innocent  lives, 
a  hundred,  ten,  even  one,  if  he  wronged  only  himself  in  the  evil 
he  did  to  attain  his  end.  But  as  the  ratio  diminishes,  the  case 


GREIFENSTEIN.  367 

becomes  manifestly  more  difficult  to  judge,  and  the  absolute 
nature  of  right  asserts  itself  more  strongly  when  it  is  not 
confronted  by  overwhelming  odds  in  most  exceptional  cir 
cumstances.  Stealing  is  bad,  but  there  is  a  difference  between 
the  case  of  the  starving  mother  who  steals  a  crust  for  her 
dying  child,  and*  the  professional  thief  who  lives  riotously 
upon  the  proceeds  of  his  crimes ;  there  is  a  difference  of 
degree  in  evil  between  stealing  money  in  order  to  render  pos 
sible  the  escape  of  a  beloved  sovereign  from  the  hands  of  a 
bloodthirsty  and  revolutionary  mob,  and  stealing  it,  under  the 
apparent  protection  of  the  law,  by  deceiving  thousands  in  the 
game  of  finance. 

Nothing  can  be  more  repugnant  to  a  man  of  honour  than  to 
do  evil  of  any  sort  in  order  that  good  may  come.  To  such  a 
man  as  Greif,  lying  is  but  a  shade  less  bad  than  murder,  and 
stealing  is  many  shades  worse.  In  his  judgment  of  the  situa 
tion  he  was  called  upon  both  to  steal  and  to  lie,  in  order  to 
secure  Frau  von  Sigrnundskron's  happiness.  It  was  true  that 
the  deception  was  to  be  practised  by  merely  holding  his  tongue, 
and  the  theft  by  keeping  what  did  not  belong  to  him,  but  Greif 
made  no  such  subtle  distinctions  of  degree.  It  was  lying  and 
stealing.  It  was  adding  a  disgrace  by  his  own  conduct  to  the 
shame  he  had  inherited.  It  was  to  give  up  all  that  remained  to 
him,  which  was  his  spotless  honesty  in  thought  and  deed.  The 
case  seemed  terribly  strong. 

There  was  Hilda,  by  his  side,  and  she  had  said  that  she  would 
not  let  him  go.  Suppose  then  that  he  went  and  told  her  mother 
the  story.  There  would  be  one  more  person  in  the  secret,  for 
though  she  might  die  of  grief,  she  would  never  tell  a  human 
being ;  she  could  not  ever  be  called  upon  to  do  so,  by  the  mad 
dest  exaggeration  of  the  principles  of  honour.  She  would  suffer 
horribly,  but  she  would  not  take  what  was  hers.  She  could  have 
no  use  for  the  fortune,  except  to  give  it  to  her  daughter,  who 
had  the  use  of  it  already.  Her  peace  would  be  destroyed  for 
ever,  and  there  would  be  no  change  in  the  conditions  under 
which  the  three  were  living,  except  that  Greif  would  have 
satisfied  his  desire  to  be  strictly  honest.  A  moral  satisfaction 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  destruction  of  all  happiness  to  one  he 
loved  on  the  other.  His  brain  reeled,  for  his  desire  to  be  truth 
ful  suddenly  appeared  to  him  in  the  light  of  a  selfish  passion 


368  GREIFENSTEltf. 

which  would  cause  endless  pain  to  those  whom  he  most  desired 
to  shield  from  all  suffering.  This  was  another  view,  and  a 
strangely  unexpected  one. 

The  chaos  of  his  thoughts  became  wilder  and  more  unsettled 
than  ever,  he  dropped  his  hands  upon  his  knees  and  leaned  back 
against  the  rough  stones  of  the  tower,  pale  and  exhausted  with 
the  struggle,  but  uncertain  yet  how  he  should  act.  Hilda  sat 
motionless  beside- him,  watching  his  movements,  and  to  some 
extent  understanding  his  thoughts,  ready  to  give  him  her  sym 
pathy  or  her  counsel,  if  he  needed  it,  ready,  too,  to  throw  all 
the  force  of  her  undaunted  nature  into  the  contest  if  he  should 
endeavour  to  maintain  his  first  position.  She  was,  indeed,  ter 
ribly  anxious,  lest  in  a  moment  of  excitement  he  should  break 
away  from  her  and  go  to  her  mother  in  his  present  frame  of 
mind.  A  long  time  had  passed  in  silence,  far  longer  than  it 
has  taken  to  describe  the  thoughts  that  succeeded  each  other  in 
Greif's  brain,  but  Hilda  would  not  speak,  nor  interrupt  the 
course  of  his  reflexions.  She  knew  that  this  was  the  decisive 
moment  of  their  lives,  and  she  understood  her  husband's  stub 
bornly  honourable  nature  well  enough  to  give  him  leisure  to 
consider  all  the  points  of  his  position. 

At  last  he  spoke,  not  looking  at  her  and  still  leaning  his  head 
against  the  stones. 

"  It  is  hard  to  talk  of  it,"  he  said.  "  And  yet  I  must,  for  I 
cannot  think  without  words.  I  must  decide,  and  quickly.  In 
another  hour  I  may  meet  your  mother.  I  must  either  tell  her, 
or  not  tell  her,  and  this  must  be  final.  If  I  do  — 

"  She  will  die,"  interrupted  Hilda.  "  Not  to-day,  not  to-mor 
row,  perhaps  not  this  year.  But  it  will  eat  up  her  heart.  I 
know  her.  She  will  spend  hours  in  her  room,  alone,  looking  at 
my  father's  picture,  and  crying  over  his  sword.  All  her  dreams 
will  go  out,  like  a  light  extinguished  in  the  dark.  All  her 
hopes  will  be  broken  to  pieces.  She  will  never  feel  again  that 
you  are  a  son  to  her,  and  that  through  you  the  Sigmundskrons 
have  begun  again.  She  will  grow  more  silent,  more  thin  and 
wan  until  the  end ;  and  then  she  will  die.  That  is  what  will 
happen  if  you  tell  her." 

"And  why  should  not  all  that  happen  to  you,  who  know?" 
asked  Greif. 

"Because  I  love  you  yourself,  and  not  an  idea,"  answered 


GREIFENSTEIN.  369 

Hilda.  "If  you  were  taken  from  me,  I  should  die,  as  my 
mother  will  if  you  kill  the  idea  she  loves." 

"  And  is  it  better  that  my  whole  life  should  be  a  lie  from  this 
day  forth,  than  that  she  should  know  the  truth,  and  do  what 
she  can  to  meet  it  ?  " 

"  To  whom  do  you  owe  the  truth,  Greif  ?  To  the  woman  you 
have  married,  to  the  mother  of  your  child,  or  to  some  one  else? 
What  good  would  she  get  by  it?  Your  money?  She  does  not 
want  money.  What  is  money  to  her,  compared  with  the  memory 
of  him  she  loved,  as  I  love  you,  or  in  comparison  with  the  hon 
our  of  his  name,  for  which  she  would  give  her  blood  ?  " 

"And  if  you  had  left  me  alone  to  read  that  letter  —  would 
you  have  had  me  keep  the  truth  from  you  too  ?  " 

"  Would  I  have  you  bear  alone  anything  that  we  can  bear 
together  ?  If  you  understand  my  love  so  little  as  to  think  that 
such  a  thing  could  change  it,  or  weaken  it,  or  make  me  what  I 
am  not  —  why  then,  I  would  not  care  what  you  did,  nor  what 
became  of  me !  " 

"  And  my  shame  is  nothing  to  you?" 

"  Nothing,  being  what  it  is,  not  yours,  but  of  others,  thrust 
upon  your  innocence." 

"  You  would  not,  for  your  own  sake,  wish  that  we  had  never 
known  of  it?" 

"For  my  sake?  No.  For  yours  —  I  would  die  to  wash  it 
out.  For  my  sake,  do  you  say  ?  Oh,  Greif,  is  one  hair  of  your 
head,  one  look  of  your  dear  eyes  less  wholly  mine,  because  your 
mother  sinned  ?  Are  you  not  Greif  to  me,  always,  and  nothing 
else?" 

"  And  so  you  love  me  still  —  just  as  you  did  before  ?  " 

"  Can  I  say  more  than  I  have  said?  Can  I  do  more  than  I 
have  done  ?  Ah  —  then  love  must  be  too  cold  a  word  for  what 
I  mean ! " 

"  You  would  not  love  me  if  I  lied,  and  were  a  coward." 

"  You  would  not  be  Greif." 

"  Nor  should  I  be  my  miserable  self,  if  I  acted  this  lie  before 
your  mother !  " 

"  You  would  not  be  Greif,  if  you  could  kill  her  with  the  vanity 
of  selfish  truth-telling." 

"  The  vanity  ?  Ay,  I  have  thought  of  that.  Perhaps  I  am 
vain,  after  all  —  I,  who  have  but  little  left  to  be  proud  of." 


370  GREIFENSTEIN. 

His  head  sank  on  his  breast,  and  he  sighed  bitterly,  wringing 
his  fingers  together.  He  wished  he  could  shed  tears,  and  cry 
aloud,  and  faint,  as  some  women  do. 

"  And  yet  —  you  have  me  —  not  to  be  proud  of,  but  to  love," 
said  Hilda  gently. 

"In  spite  of  all?  Is  it  really  true,  quite  true?"  He  shook 
his  head  doubtfully. 

"  It  is  true." 

Hilda  had  no  words  left  with  which  to  persuade  him  of  her 
unfaltering  love,  but  perhaps  at  that  moment  the  simple  little 
phrase,  with  the  accent  she  gave  it,  told  Greif  more  than  many 
protestations.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  course  of  his  distress 
was  checked  suddenly,  and  that  he  felt  the  strain  of  the  cable 
upon  the  firm  anchor  at  last.  It  was  the  hour  of  destiny,  when 
one  word  decides  the  future  of  many  lives,  for  good  or  evil. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  Greif  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice.  He  put  out 
his  hand  and  took  hers.  "  I  will  never  ask  you  again,  dear,"  he 
said  presently.  "  It  was  hard  to  believe,  it  seemed  as  though  I 
ought  not  to  believe  it." 

In  spite  of  all,  there  was  a  happy  light  in  his  eyes,  as  he  turned 
them  to  her  and  gazed  into  her  face.  After  all,  the  terrible 
things  told  in  the  letter  had  happened  long  ago,  and  he  was 
young,  in  the  midst  of  a  glorious  present,  in  the  very  midst  of 
all  that  love  and  happiness  could  give.  It  would  be  many  a 
long  year  before  he  could  think  calmly  of  the  hideous  secret, 
and  perhaps  his  whole  life  from  that  day  would  be  more  thought 
ful  and  serious  than  it  had  been.  But  it  was  not  in  the  power 
of  an  evil  fate  to  follow  him  further  than  that.  The  curse  of 
the  Greif ensteins,  as  people  a  hundred  years  ago  would  have 
called  that  strange  chain  of  circumstances  in  which  his  race  had 
been  involved,  had  run  its  course,  and  had  spent  itself  in  the 
conflict  with  a  woman's  love.  Beyond  that  there  was  nothing 
but  the  smooth  haven  of  rest,  which  no  blast  of  evil  could  ruffle, 
and  into  which  no  overwhelming  wave  of  calamity  could  break. 

Greif  scarcely  knew  how  it  was  that  the  struggle  ended,  nor 
why,  when  it  was  over,  he  felt  that  he  had  not  lost  the  day. 
But  nevertheless,  it  was  so,  and  peace  descended  upon  his  soul. 
For  a  long  time  neither  he  nor  Hilda  spoke.  Very  gradually, 
the  colour  returned  to  Greif's  face,  and  the  light  to  his  eyes ; 
very  gradually  the  luminous  veil  of  his  happiness  descended 


GREIFENSTEIN.  371 

between  him  and  the  shades  of  the  evil  dead,  not  cutting  off  the 
memory  of  their  deeds,  but  hiding  the  horror  of  their  presence. 

"  And  so  Rex  is  my  brother,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  And  mine,"  said  Hilda. 

"  He  does  not  know  —  or  does  he  ?  " 

"  How  could  he  ?  " 

"  His  father  wrote  to  him  —  was  that  letter  lost  too?  Is  that 
yet  to  come?"  Greif's  heart  sank  at  the  thought  that  all  was 
not  over  yet. 

"  But  if  he  had  known,"  said  Hilda,  "  could  he  have  hidden  it 
so  long  ?  And  besides,  he  came  with  you.  If  there  had  been  a 
letter  to  him,  you  would  have  known  of  it.  Who  could  have 
given  it  to  him,  without  your  knowledge?" 

"Your  mother." 

"  She  never  told  me  of  it,  though  she  often  wondered  that  you 
had  nothing." 

"  Rex  knows !  "  exclaimed  Greif  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  "  And 
he  received  the  letter.  I  have  told  you  how  it  was  that  he  con 
fessed  to  me  his  real  name.  He  was  telling  the  truth  then,  for 
I  know  him  well.  He  would  as  soon  have  told  me  that  he  was 
my  brother  as  my  cousin  —  " 

"  He  would  have  hesitated  to  do  that  —  " 

"  No.  You  do  not  know  him.  He  does  not  value  his  life  a 
straw,  and  would  as  soon  have  taken  that  opportunity  of  part 
ing  with  it  as  any  other." 

"  But  how  could  he  have  concealed  it  since  ?  Why  should  my 
mother  have  never  told  us  that  his  father  wrote  ?  " 

"  Because  she  felt  that  I  should  have  been  pained  to  think 
that  Rex  had  received  something  and  I  nothing.  It  is  as  clear 
as  day.  It  explains  many  things.  No  one  but  a  brother  could 
have  acted  as  he  did  all  through  my  illness.  I  have  often  seen 
him  looking  at  me  strangely,  and  I  never  understood  what  it 
meant  until  now.  He  knew,  and  I  did  not.  Besides  —  " 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Hilda,  as  he  stopped  short. 

"  Well,  it  would  explain,  too,  why  he  was  so  anxious  that  you 
and  I  should  be  married.  If  he  knew  —  and  he  did,  I  am  sure 
—  he  saw  that  if  I  persisted  he  would  have  to  tell  me  the  truth, 
in  order  that  you  should  have  the  fortune.  I  used  to  wonder 
why  he  pressed  me  so." 

"  Do  you  think  that  was  it  ?  " 


372  GREIFENSTEIN. 

"What  else  could  he  do?  He  must  have  ruined  me,  his 
brother,  if  the  marriage  had  not  taken  place." 

"  Would  he  have  done  that  ?  "  asked  Hilda. 

"  Rex  believes  in  nothing  but  honour,"  Greif  answered 
thoughtfully.  "  There  is  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  which  could 
keep  him  from  doing  what  he  thinks  honourable.  He  would 
ruin  me  or  himself  with  perfect  indifference  rather  than  see  an 
injustice  done  by  the  fault  of  either." 

"  He  is  a  strange  man." 

"  He  is  a  grand  man,  noble  in  every  part  of  him,  splendidly 
unselfish,  magnificently  brave  —  I  wish  I  were  like  him." 

"  I  should  not  love  you.  He  is  cold  as  stone,  though  he  may 
be  all  that  you  say,  and  though  I  am  very  fond  of  him." 

"  Yes  —  he  is  cold.  He  never  loved  a  woman  in  his  life.  But 
I  admire  him  and  respect  him,  though  I  never  quite  understand 
him.  There  is  always  something  that  escapes  me,  something 
beyond  my  reach.  Perhaps  that  is  what  they  call  genius." 

"  And  yet  no  one  has  heard  of  him.  He  has  never  done  any 
thing  with  his  talent.  It  is  strange,  too,  for  he  is  immensely 
wise.  I  wonder  what  the  reason  can  be." 

"He  does  not  believe  in  anything  —  not  even  in  greatness," 
answered  Greif.  "  I  believe  his  mind  is  so  large  that  the 
greatest  things  seem  little  to  him.  I  have  heard  him  talk  about 
almost  everything  at  one  time  or  another.  The  end  of  all  his 
arguments  is  that  nothing  is  worth  while.  And  there  is  a  reason, 
too.  His  father's  disgrace  has  pursued  him  since  he  was  a  child." 

Greif's  voice  fell  suddenly,  and  his  face  grew  dark. 

"  And  what  should  I  be,  then  !  "  he  exclaimed  a  moment  later. 

"  What  he  is,  were  you  in  his  place,"  Hilda  answered.  "  But 
you  are  not,  you  see." 

"  But  for  you,  Hilda,  but  for  you." 

"  You  for  me,  and  I  for  you,  my  beloved.  That  is  what  love 
means." 

"  I  have  seen  what  it  means  to-day,"  said  Greif. 

Their  hearts  were  too  full  for  either  of  them  to  speak  much 
so  soon  as  they  approached  the  question  which  had  so  nearly 
destroyed  all  their  happiness.  For  a  long  time  they  were 
silent,  unconscious  of  the  swift  flight  of  the  hours,  little  guessing 
what  a  strange  drama  was  being  enacted  almost  beneath  their 
feet,  in  the  solitary  room  where  Rex  had  determined  to  lay 
down  the  burden  of  life  in  the  cause  of  honour. 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  373 

"  I  must  go  to  him,"  said  Greif  at  last. 

"To  Rex?" 

"Yes.  I  must  know  how  much  he  knows  —  though  I  am 
sure  he  knows  all." 

"  Will  you  tell  him  if  he  does  not  know  ?  " 

"Shall  I?" 

"  He  is  your  brother.  He  will  see  it  as  I  do.  It  is  best  that 
he  should  know." 

"  Come  then,  dear,"  said  Greif  rising  from  his  seat. 

"  Shall  I  go  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  bring  him  out  of  his  room,  if  he  is  there,  and  you  can 
wait  a  moment  in  the  passage.  If  not,  we  will  go  on  together 
and  find  him." 

"  It  is  twelve  o'clock ! "  exclaimed  Hilda,  glancing  up  at  the 
great  dial  in  the  tower  as  she  rose. 

"  It  has  not  struck  yet,"  answered  Greif  carelessly. 

They  entered  the  winding  staircase  together  and  went  down. 


374  GREIFENSTEIK. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

REX'S  room  was  situated  in  the  upper  story  of  the  castle,  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  staircase  through  which  Greif  and 
Hilda  descended.  Greif  knocked  and  opened  the  door  almost 
simultaneously,  not  waiting  for  permission  to  enter.  Hilda 
stood  in  the  corridor  outside. 

With  a  sharp  exclamation  Greif  sprang  forward.  Fortu 
nately,  his  presence  of  mind  did  not  forsake  him,  and  he  did 
not  hesitate  an  instant.  Before  Rex  could  pull  the  trigger  of 
his  revolver,  Greif  had  grappled  with  him  and  was  trying  to 
wrest  the  weapon  from  his  grasp.  It  was  an  even  match,  or 
very  nearly  so.  Neither  spoke  a  word  while  they  both  twisted 
and  wrenched  and  strained  for  the  mastery.  Greif's  superior 
height  gave  him  some  advantage,  but  Rex  was  compactly  built 
and  very  strong. 

Very  probably,  if  Greif  had  made  a  less  sudden  entry,  Rex 
would  have  laid  the  pistol  down  with  all  his  usual  calm,  and 
would  have  postponed  his  intention  until  he  had  got  his  brother 
out  of  the  room.  But  Greif  had  sprung  upon  him  very  unex 
pectedly,  and  Rex  knew  instantly  that  he  was  detected  in  his 
purpose,  and  must  either  execute  it  now  or  give  it  up,  and 
resign  himself  to  being  treated  like  a  madman,  and  watched 
by  lynx-eyed  keepers  day  and  night. 

Hilda,  who  heard  the  noise  of  the  scuffle,  but  had  no  idea  that 
such  a  contest  was  taking  place,  approached  the  open  door,  sup 
posing  from  the  sound  of  shuffling  feet  that  the  two  men  were 
hunting  some  animal  that  had  got  into  the  room.  Just  as  she 
stood  before  the  threshold,  and  caught  sight  of  Greif  and  Rex 
wrestling  for  life,  Greif  to  take  the  pistol,  Rex  to  put  it  to  his 
own  head,  she  heard  a  low,  angry  voice  which  she  did  not  recog 
nise.  It  was  more  like  the  growl  of  an  angry  wild  beast  than 
anything  else.  Rex  was  not  getting  the  better  in  the  fight, 
though  he  had  not  lost  much.  His  object  was  to  bring  the 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  375 

muzzle  of  his  revolver  against  his  own  head,  while  Greif  was 
doing  his  utmost  to  prevent  the  movement. 

"  Let  me  go  ! "  exclaimed  Rex,  in  deep,  vibrating  tones.  "  Let 
me  go,  man  —  I  love  your  wife,  and  I  mean  to  die  !  " 

With  a  violent  effort  he  twisted  his  hand  upwards,  lowering 
his  head  as  much  as  he  could  at  the  same  moment.  As  the 
charge  exploded,  the  bullet  went  crashing  through  the  mirror, 
and  the  weapon  was  wrenched  away  by  other  hands  than  Greif 's, 
whiter  and  smaller,  but  scarcely  less  strong.  Hilda  had  seen 
the  danger  and  had  joined  in  the  struggle  at  the  critical  mo 
ment,  just  in  time  to  save  Rex  from  a  dangerous  wound,  if  not 
from  actual  death.  She  had  got  possession  of  the  chief  object 
of  contention,  not  without  risk  of  being  injured  herself. 

Rex's  efforts  ceased  almost  immediately.  Between  his  anger 
at  having  been  forced  to  relinquish  his  intention  and  his  pro 
found  horror  at  seeing  Hilda  at  his  side  almost  at  the  moment 
when  he  had  said  that  he  loved  her,  Rex  had  no  strength  left. 
Only  a  supreme  struggle,  at  once  moral  and  physical,  could  have 
forced  from  his  lips  the  words  he  had  spoken.  For  a  few 
seconds  only  his  presence  of  mind  failed  him.  Then  the  supe 
riority  of  his  nature  over  ordinary  mankind  asserted  itself.  He 
gently  pushed  Greif's  hands  away,  and  drew  back  a  step  in  the 
direction  of  the  door. 

"  You  know  my  secret  now,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet  dignity  that 
was  almost  beautiful  to  see.  "  I  ask  but  the  favour  of  being  left 
alone." 

"I  will  not  leave  you  for  an  instant  — "  Greif  began,  but 
Hilda  interrupted  him  and  passed  him  quickly. 

She  came  to  Rex  and  laid  one  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  Is  it  true  ?  "  she  asked  earnestly,  while 
Greif  looked  on  amazed. 

"  But  for  your  hand,  I  should  have  died  with  the  confession 
on  my  lips,"  Rex  answered.  "  I  love  you,  yes." 

"  Then  live,  for  my  sake !  "  said  Hilda,  holding  out  the  hand 
that  had  saved  him. 

"  For  your  sake  ?  "  Rex  repeated  the  words  as  though  scarcely 
understanding  them. 

"For  my  sake  and  for  his,"  Hilda  answered,  pointing  to 
Greif. 


376  GREIFENSTEIN". 

"  With  that  sin  against  him  in  my  heart  ?  No.  I  will  not. 
It  would  be  but  a  traitor's  life,  a  dog's  life.  I  will  not." 

"  You  shall,  and  you  will !  "  said  Hilda,  with  that  grand  con 
viction  of  power  she  had  shown  more  than  once  during  her  life. 
"  Only  a  man  who  has  tried  to  die  is  worthy  to  live  in  such  a 
case.  Do  you  know  what  my  husband  is  to  you? " 

"  I  know  it  better  than  he.     I  have  known  it  long." 

"  Not  better  than  he,  or  than  I.  We  have  learnt  the  secret 
to-day." 

"  You  know !  "  exclaimed  Rex  in  great  surprise.  "  Look  at 
those  ashes,  there  upon  the  floor  —  they  are  all  I  have  left  of  it 
—  and  you  know !  No  —  you  cannot,  it  is  impossible  —  " 

"  We  know  that  you  are  brothers,"  said  Hilda,  taking  his 
hand  in  spite  of  him.  "  There  is  no  secret  any  more,  between 
us  three  —  " 

"  And  you  know  that  I  love  you,  that  I  love  my  brother's 
wife,  and  you  would  have  me  live?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Greif,  who  had  not  spoken  yet.  "  I  would  have 
you  live,  through  all  our  lives,  and  I  would  have  you  two  love 
each  other  with  all  your  hearts,  as  I  love  you  both." 

Ilex  stared  at  him,  and  then  at  Hilda.  He  raised  one  hand, 
and  passed  it  over  his  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  It  is  because  I  understand,  that  I  speak  as  I  do,"  Greif 
answered  earnestly.  "  It  is  because  I  know  that  not  a  nobler 
man  than  you  breathes  in  the  world.  It  is  because  there  is  but 
one  Hilda  in  the  earth,  and  she  is  mine,  as  I  am  hers." 

"You  are  not  human,  my  brother,"  said  Rex.  "You  should 
wish  me  dead." 

"  If  you  were  any  other  man  but  Rex,  I  might.  Being  what 
you  are,  I  wish  that  we  three  may  never  part." 

"Never!"  exclaimed  Hilda.  "Ah,  Horst,  do  you  not  see 
that  you  are  my  brother,  too?  Do  you  not  feel  that  I  am  your 
sister  —  and  should  brothers  and  sisters  such  as  we  are  be  made 
to  part  ? " 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  Rex  answered.  "  If  you  would  have  me  live, 
I  can  but  give  you  what  life  is  left  in  me.  You  know  me  now. 
You  know  what  I  only  learned  of  myself  last  night,  and  what  I 
would  have  taken  to  the  grave,  unknown  to  any  one,  to-day.  If 
in  your  eyes  I  am  so  far  less  base  than  in  my  own,  if  you  can 
look  upon  me  and  not  loathe  me,  if  you  can  think  of  me  and 


GKEIFENSTEEST.  377 

not  call  me  traitor,  why  then  this  life  is  yours.  And  yet,  I 
wonder  that  you  can,  seeing  that  I  am  what  I  am.  Would  you 
know  how  it  came  ?  You  may  know  if  you  will,  there  is  less 
shame  to  me  in  that  than  in  the  rest.  I  loved  in  a  dream.  I 
made  myself  the  father  of  this  Hilda  in  my  shadowy  visions ;  I 
made  in  my  thoughts  a  mother  for  her,  like  her,  dead  long  ago, 
whom  I  had  loved.  I  talked  with  a  shadow,  I  loved  a  shadow, 
and  the  unreal  phantasm  I  loved  grew  to  be  like  Hilda  herself 

—  so  like  that  when  I  saw  they  were  the  same,  last  night,  here 
upon  this  very  spot,  I  knew  that  I  must  die  and  quickly.     The 
shadow  was  the  living  wife  of  him  for  whom  I  would  give  all, 
of  my  only  friend,  of  my  only  kinsman,  of  my  only  brother. 
And  so,  if  you  had  not  hindered  me,  I  should  have  been  but  a 
shadow  now,  myself.     It  had  been  best,  perhaps.     But  my  life 
is  yours,  do  with  it  what  you  will.     It  is  yours  in  all  honour, 
such  as  it  is.     It  was  not  to  escape  from  torment  that  I  would 
have  died  ;    it  was  not  because  I  feared  by  word  or  deed  to 
break  the  seal  and  to  show  you  what  was  in  me.     It  was  to  rid 
my  brother  and  the  world  of  a  wretch  who  had  no  claim  to 
live." 

"  More  right  than  I,  or  many  a  better  man  than  I  am,"  said 
Greif,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  brother's  shoulder. 

"  Be  wise,  Greif,"  answered  Rex.  "  Think  well  of  what  is  to 
come.  Think  well  whether  you  can  trust  me  and  trust  your 
self.  For  me  —  I  care  little.  A  touch  of  the  finger,  a  little 
noise,  and  you  would  be  rid  of  me  for  ever.  There  is  a  safety 
in  death,  which  life  cannot  give." 

"  Do  not  talk  any  more  of  death,  dear  Horst,"  said  Hilda. 
"  It  is  but  a  year  and  a  few  months,  since  two  brothers  and  one 
woman,  three  as  we  are,  in  the  same  bonds  save  one,  all  stood 
together  as  we  stand,  perhaps,  and  by  their  deeds  and  deaths 
wiped  away  death  from  our  lives.  Talk  no  more  of  death  now 

—  in  this  other  home,  where  there  are  other  names  than  those 
that  were  dishonoured.     Let  this  be  the  house  of  life,  as  that 
was  the  house  of  death,  the  home  of  honest  love,  as  that  was 
the  home  of  treachery,  the  dwelling  of  peace,  as  that  was  made 
at  last  the  place  of  violent  and  desperate  deeds.     The  hour  of 
destiny  is  passed.     The  days  without  fear  begin  to-day." 

It  was  indeed  the  decisive  moment  in  the  lives  of  all  three, 
and  there  was  silence  for  a  space  after  Hilda  had  spoken.  The 
thoughts  her  words  called  up  passed  rapidly  through  the  minds 


378  GKEIFENSTEIN. 

of  her  hearers  and  produced  their  effect  on  each.  As  she  had 
truly  said,  there  was  a  mysterious  resemblance  between  the 
climax  and  the  anti-climax  of  their  history.  As  Rieseneck  and 
Greifenstein  had  been  half-brothers,  so  were  Greif  and  Rex ; 
as  their  fathers  had  loved  one  woman,  so  they  also  both  loved 
Hilda ;  as  the  elder  pair  might  have  been,  but  for  the  woman 
who  wrought  their  destruction,  honourable,  brave  and  earnest 
men,  so  were  their  sons  in  reality  —  the  difference  lay  not  so 
much  between  the  fathers  and  the  sons,  as  between  one  woman 
and  the  other,  between  Clara  Kurtz  and  Hilda  von  Sigmund- 
skron.  Instead  of  ruining  both  brothers,  as  Clara  had  done, 
Hilda  had  saved  both  from  destruction,  in  the  place  of  shame, 
she  had  brought  honour,  in  the  stead  of  death  she  had  given  life 
to  both.  And  both  looked  at  her  during  the  silence  and  won 
dered  inwardly  at  the  beauty  of  her  strength,  asking  themselves 
how  it  was  possible  that  in  a  few  short  months  this  child  of  the 
forest,  innocent  and  ignorant  of  the  world,  should  have  attained 
to  proportions  that  were  almost  divine  in  their  eyes,  should  have 
developed  from  the  simple  maiden  to  the  noble  woman,  from 
the  quiet,  gentle  girl,  to  the  splendidly  dominating  incarnation 
of  good,  that  had  more  than  once  overcome  their  mistaken 
impulses,  and  made  plain  their  way  before  them  by  the  illumi 
nation  of  the  right,  just  as  her  golden  head  and  gleaming  eyes 
seemed  to  light  up  the  room  in  which  she  stood.  They  looked 
at  her  and  wondered,  both  loving  her  beyond  all  earthly  things, 
each  in  his  own  way ;  the  one  with  the  earnest,  deep-rooted 
purpose  to  live  and  die  in  all  honour  for  her  sake,  silent  for 
ever,  having  spoken  once,  doing  daily  homage  to  her  innocence 
and  loveliness,  and  reverently  sacrificing  every  day  for  her  the 
very  love  whereby  he  lived ;  the  other,  loving  in  her  the  wife, 
the  mother  of  his  sons,  the  source  of  all  the  glorious  happiness 
that  had  come  upon  his  early  manhood  in  such  an  abundant 
measure,  the  woman  who  had  saved  him,  the  woman  he  adored, 
the  woman  who  was  his,  as  he  was  hers.  Neither  had  known 
before  how  great  and  good  she  was,  and  from  this  day  neither 
would  ever  forget  one  shade  of  the  goodness  and  the  greatness 
she  had  revealed  to  both. 

A  baser  man  than  Rex  would  have  suffered  and  would  have 
foreseen  suffering  throughout  his  coming  days,  in  dwelling 
beside  the  woman  who  could  not  be  his.  But  he  was  made  of 
better  stuff  than  most  men,  and  his  passion  had  received  a  stern 


GBEIFENSTEIN.  379 

and  sudden  check  from  the  force  of  his  commanding  will.  It 
was  as  though  Hilda  had  been  deified  before  him,  and  had  been 
lifted  to  a  sphere  in  which  he  could  worship  her  as  a  higher 
being  and  forget  that  she  was  a  woman.  He  bowed  his  head 
in  thought,  while  Hilda  and  Greif  stood  before  him.  They  saw 
the  white  streaks  in  the  soft  hair  that  had  been  so  brown  and 
bright  but  yesterday,  and  they  glanced  at  each  other,  awestruck 
at  the  thought  of  what  he  must  have  suffered. 

"  His  hair  is  white  —  and  it  is  for  me ! "  Hilda  whispered  as 
she  leaned  upon  her  husband's  shoulder. 

Rex's  quick  ear  caught  the  words,  though  they  were  scarcely 
audible.  He  looked  up,  and  his  stony  eyes  grew  strangely  soft 
and  expressive. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  know  it  —  but  it  is  not  strange.  I  am 
glad  it  is  so,  for  it  was  in  a  good  cause.  You  are  right,  Hilda, 
my  sister  —  the  hour  of  destiny  is  passed.  It  has  left  its  marks, 
but  they  are  pledges  that  it  will  not  return.  The  new  life 
begins  to-day  —  give  me  your  hands,  both  of  you  —  do  mine 
tremble  so  ?  It  is  with  happiness,  not  with  pain  —  oh,  not  with 
pain,  do  not  think  it !  Give  me  a  share  in  your  lives,  since  you 
will.  I  take  it  gladly,  and  you  shall  not  regret  it.  You  have 
my  word  that  you  shall  never  feel  one  sting  when  you  look  at 
me,  you,  my  brother,  you,  my  sister.  I  will  be  a  brother  to  you 
both,  a  son  to  her  you  both  call  mother,  though,  in  truth,  I  am 
too  old  for  that  —  but  she  must  be  a  mother  to  us  all,  in  place 
of  what  none  of  us  have  ever  had,  save  Hilda.  And  I  kiss  your 
hand,  dear  sister  —  so  —  it  is  the  pledge  —  I  take  yours  in  mine, 
brother,  and  I  know  you,  and  you  know  me,  and  we  can  look 
each  into  the  other's  eyes  and  say  I  trust,  and  know  that  we  trust 
well.  There  —  it  is  done,  and  we  are  joined,  we  three,  for  good 
or  evil,  to  stand  together  if  there  be  strife  still  in  store  for  us 
who  have  striven  so  much,  to  live  in  brotherly  love  and  peace, 
if  peace  is  to  be  ours,  until  the  grey  years  come  and  we  are  laid 
side  by  side  together." 

"  So  be  it,  and  may  God  bless  us  all,"  said  Greif. 

"  God  will  bless  us,"  answered  Hilda  softly. 

One  more  pressure  of  the  hands  and  then  Greif  and  Hilda 
turned  and  went  away.  The  door  closed  softly  behind  them, 
and  Rex  was  alone. 

He  went  and  took  up  the  revolver  that  Hilda  had  laid  upon 
the  table,  looked  at  it  long,  and  then  placed  it  hi  the  drawer, 


380  GEEIFENSTEIN. 

and  turned  the  key  upon  it.  Once  more  he  sat  down  where  he 
had  sat  so  long,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  pressed 
them  to  his  aching  eyes. 

The  greater  sacrifice  was  accomplished  now,  and  he  knew 
that  it  was  over,  and  that  his  years  would  be  in  peace,  for  all 
was  clear  and  honest  and  true  as  the  day.  He  looked  up  at 
last,  upwards  as  though  searching  for  something  above  him, 
straining  his  weary  sight  for  a  vision  that  was  not  granted  him. 

"  I  have  lived,"  he  said  aloud,  in  a  strange  voice.  "  I  had 
never  lived  before,  never  in  all  this  time.  And  if  they  are 
right,  if  You  are  there,  You,  their  God  —  then  bless  me  too, 
with  them,  and  make  me  like  them  !  Is  that  a  prayer?  Why 
then,  I  will  say  Amen,  and  be  it  so  !  It  is  the  only  prayer  I 
could  ever  pray  now,  to  be  like  them,  to  be  like  them  —  yes,  only 
that,  to  be  like  them  !  " 

And  Rex  meant  what  he  said.  He  was  incapable  of  seeing 
that  he  himself  had  done  anything  more  than  his  plain  and 
honourable  duty.  He  knew  that  he  had  overcome  what  had 
seemed  most  base  in  his  own  eyes,  but  he  would  have  been 
amazed  if  any  one  had  suggested  that  any  credit  was  due  to 
him  for  that,  since  he  had  but  obeyed  the  law  of  honour,  the 
only  law  he  knew  or  recognised.  In  his  own  estimation  he 
was  not  less  contemptible  for  having  harboured  a  thought 
which  would  have  been  dishonourable  only  if  it  had  been  base 
and  gross,  but  which,  being  so  pure  and  sacred,  was  but  the 
natural  expression  of  a  noble  heart.  But  he  saw  in  Hilda  and 
Greif  a  generosity  which  seemed  boundless  when  confronted 
with  the  evil  of  which  he  judged  himself  guilty,  and  he  felt 
that  genuine  gratitude  which  only  a  high-souled  being  can  feel 
in  such  a  case. 

Perhaps,  if  the  truth  were  told,  Eex  was  himself  the  noblest 
of  the  three.  It  is  certain  that  he  had  suffered  most,  and  he  had 
assuredly  suffered  bravely,  and  fought  against  what  he  hated  in 
himself  with  an  earnestness  and  true-hearted  purpose  worthy  of 
a  good  man.  Hilda  and  Greif  thought  so,  at  least,  as  they 
walked  slowly  away  from  his  room. 

"  We  have  seen  a  strange  and  wonderful  sight,  my  beloved," 
said  Greif,  as  they  came  out  together  again  upon  the  terrace. 
They  had  returned  thither  instinctively  in  order  to  be  alone. 

"  Wonderful  indeed.  Ah,  Greif,  you  were  right  when  you  said 
that  he  was  a  grand  man.  I  never  thought  that  there  were  such 
men  as  that  nowadays." 


GKEIFENSTEIN.  381 

"  An8  we  were  wrong  to  say  that  he  was  cold." 

"  You  saw  his  hair  ?  I  was  frightened  when  I  thought  of  what 
he  must  have  suffered,  to  make  it  change  like  that !  Oh,  Greif, 
is  it  my  fault  ?  Have  I  any  fault  in  it  ?  I  should  never  rest 
again,  if  I  thought  so." 

"  What  fault  of  yours  can  there  be  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember,  long  ago,  on  that  day  when  you  came  to 
ask  my  mother,  here,  on  this  very  terrace  —  I  told  you  to  speak 
to  him?" 

"Yes.     What  of  it?" 

"  Perhaps  it  was  vanity  after  all.  Perhaps,  if  I  had  let  him 
hate  me,  or  dislike  me,  or  whatever  it  was  —  all  this  might  never 
have  happened.  It  is  my  fault,  it  is,  I  know  it  is !  " 

"No,  darling  —  it  is  not.  Things  could  not  then  have  gone 
on  as  they  were  going,  and  we  both  did  right.  You  heard  his 
story  —  you  know  how  truthful  he  is.  He  told  us  exactly  what 
had  happened  to  him,  and  he  told  us  for  that  very  reason,  in 
order  to  make  it  clear  that  he  had  not  known  it  all  along,  but 
had  realised  it  suddenly,  as  he  said  he  did.  If  he  had  guessed 
before  that  he  was  in  danger  of  loving  you  he  would  not 
have  stayed  a  day  under  our  roof.  But  it  came  upon  him  all 
at  once,  and  when  it  came  upon  him  it  was  too  strong,  and  too 
great." 

"  And  besides,  he  knew  that  you  were  his  brother,  from  the 
first.  That  made  it  worse.  How  wonderfully  he  has  kept  the 
secret  through  all  this  time !  " 

"  There  is  nobody  like  him.  There  is  only  one  Rex  in  the 
world,"  said  Greif  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

"  And  there  is  only  one  Greif  in  the  world,"  Hilda  answered. 

"  Fortunately.  Do  you  know  ?  I  feel  as  if  Rex  were  really 
going  to  make  it  easier  for  us." 

"Easier?    How?" 

"  Easier  to  keep  this  thing  from  your  mother.  Hilda  —  it  is 
a  fearful  story !  As  we  stood  there  together,  when  you  were 
speaking,  I  felt  it  all,  I  saw  those  other  three,  I  heard  their 
voices,  I  knew  what  they  must  have  felt  and  thought  and  said, 
on  that  night.  It  must  have  been  an  awful  scene.  And  here 
are  we — two  brothers,  as  they  were  —  ah,  the  difference  is  in 
you,  darling  —  how  can  I  ever  thank  you  for  being  Hilda !  " 

"  By  loving  me,  sweetheart.  Do  not  think  of  that  in  any  other 
way.  Besides,  you  owe  me  nothing.  I  cannot  help  loving  you. 


382  GREIFENSTEIN. 

If  I  did  not  love  you  I  might  hate  you,  though  I  think  I  should 
admire  you,  all  the  same." 

"Admire  me  !  "  exclaimed  Greif,  with  an  honest  laugh. 

"  You  were  grand  to-day  —  you  were  so  generous  !  " 

"  I  do  not  see  much  generosity  —  " 

"  You  are  not  a  woman.  How  can  you  see  anything !  Do  you 
think  that  every  man  would  have  put  out  his  hand  to  another 
who  loved  his  wife  and  said  so  V  It  was  splendid  —  I  was  so 
proud  of  you." 

"  What  else  could  I  have  done  ?  And  then,  I  was  not  jealous, 
I  am  not  now,  I  never  shall  be,  of  him." 

"  You  are  right  in  that,  dear.  That  is  not  the  sort  of  love  that 
a  man  need  be  jealous  of.  It  is  not  love  at  all,  as  we  think  of 
love,  strong  as  it  is." 

"  How  much  you  know  !  " 

"  I  know  about  love  —  yes,  a  great  deal,  for  I  have  thought 
about  it,  ever  since  I  first  loved  you,  when  I  was  little.  Yes,  I 
know  much  about  love,  much  more  than  you  would  think. 
What  Rex  feels,  is  a  sort  of  wild  adoration,  half  ecstasy,  half 
imagination,  which  he  connects  in  some  way  with  my  face  and 
the  sound  of  my  voice.  That  is  all.  It  is  not  like  what  I  feel 
for  you,  or  you  for  me.  He  would  not  be  sorry  if  I  died.  It 
would  make  it  easier  for  him.  He  would  build  temples  to  me, 
and  kneel  before  a  picture  of  me,  and  be  quite  as  happy  as  he 
is  now.  One  sees  that.  And  yet  it  is  all  so  real,  and  he  suffers 
so  fearfully,  that  his  hair  has  turned  white.  Poor  fellow,  and  I 
am  so  very  fond  of  him  !  " 

"What  makes  you  think  all  you  say,  Hilda?"  asked  Greif, 
growing  interested  in  her  strange  view  of  the  case. 

"  The  whole  thing.  He  is  as  fond  of  you  as  ever,  and  more 
so,  just  as  you  are  of  him.  Now  if  it  were  our  sort  of  love,  you 
two  would  instinctively  go  and  cut  each  other's  throats,  and  that 
would  be  the  natural  ending.  Instead  of  that,  you  love  each 
other  like  brothers  as  you  are.  Do  you  not  see  that  it  must 
be  a  different  kind  of  love  from  ours  ?  " 

"Yes.     You  are  right.     But  it  is  not  less  real." 

"  Less  real  ?  No  !  It  seems  more  real  to  him  than  ours  could 
ever  seem,  if  he  were  capable  of  it.  That  is  the  reason  why  he 
is  so  grand,  and  true  and  noble  —  being  placed  as  he  is.  If  he 
loved  me  as  you  have  always  loved  me,  I  should  hate  him,  even 
if  I  pitied  him  ;  I  should  want  him  to  go  away,  so  that  1  might 


GEEIFENSTEIN.  383 

never  see  him  again,  nor  hear  of  him.  I  should  be  miserable 
so  long  as  he  were  under  the  roof.  And  instead  of  that  —  I 
feel  that  he  is  a  dear  brother  and  a  true  friend." 

"  So  do  I." 

"  And  he  will  be  all  we  expect  of  him.  You  and  I  must  try 
to  make  his  life  happy,  Greif.  He  is  a  very  lonely  man.  He  is 
much  older  than  we  are  —  just  think!  He  is  nearly  as  old  as 
my  mother.  But  he  looked  old  to-day.  Poor  Rex !  I  would 
do  anything  to  make  him  happy." 

"You  have  made  him  happy  already." 

"How?" 

"You  have  made  him  forgive  himself,  and  you  have  made 
him  feel  that  he  is  one  of  us,  more  than  ever  before.  Only  a 
woman  could  have  done  that,  Hilda  —  perhaps  no  woman  but 
you." 

"  Do  you  think  I  did  that?    I  should  be  very  glad  —  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  He  never  yields  unless  he  is  convinced. 
He  is  a  man  of  iron  and  steel.  If  he  had  still  believed  that  he 
was  to  blame  for  all  this,  no  earthly  power  would  have  made 
him  consent  to  live.  And  now,  he  will  live,  and  he  will  be 
happy.  He  owes  his  life  to  you,  darling." 

"  As  I  owe  yours  to  him." 

"  As  I  owe  mine  to  you  both.  Surely,  no  three  were  ever  so 
bound  together  as  we  are.  It  is  strange  and  wonderful." 

"  But  the  bond  is  closest  here,  my  beloved ! "  exclaimed 
Hilda,  as  her  arms  went  round  him. 

"  Ay,  closest  and  best !  "  answered  Greif,  as  their  lips  met. 

During  that  long  and  eventful  morning  Frau  von  Sigmund- 
skron  had  been  alone.  Of  all  the  four  she  only  knew  no  sad 
ness.  When  she  went  from  time  to  time  and  gazed  upon  her 
little  grandson,  she  felt  as  though  her  heart  would  burst  with 
gladness.  There,  in  his  small  cradle,  lay  the  realisation  of  a 
hope  she  had  thought  vain  for  nearly  twenty  years.  There  lay 
a  little  Sigmundskron,  a  sturdy  little  baby  with  white  hair  and 
bright  eyes  and  rosy  mouth,  his  tiny  hands  clenched  stubbornly 
in  the  first  effort  to  feel  his  own  mimic  strength,  fair  as  a 
Gothic  child  should  be,  without  blemish,  perfect  and  noble  in 
every  point.  There  he  was,  and  his  name  was  Sigmundskron 
as  well  as  Sigmund,  and  the  day  would  come  when  he  should  be 
tall  and  strong.  In  his  veins  there  stirred  that  good  blood  that 
had  never  known  fear  or  dishonour,  untainted  still  through  nigh 


384  GREIFENSTEIN. 

a  thousand  years.  Not  only  had  he  the  name,  as  Greif  had  — 
that  little  child  had  the  blood  also,  and  he  would  surely  have 
the  loyal  heart  and  the  strong  hand.  And  he  should  have 
brothers,  too.  Never  again  should  the  fate  of  the  ancient  race 
hang  by  the  single  silken  strand  that  had  borne  its  burden  so 
bravely.  And  that  little  child  was  to  have  not  only  the  name 
and  the  lion's  soul,  and  the  bare  walls  of  Sigmundskron.  He 
was  to  have  broad  lands  and  princely  wealth.  He  was  to  have 
the  power,  as  well  as  the  will,  the  worldly  greatness  befitting 
the  son  of  such  a  high  and  lordly  line. 

It  seemed  too  good  to  believe,  too  good  to  think,  too  good  to 
see.  Day  after  day  from  his  birth  the  white-haired  lady  came 
and  looked  at  him  and  never  tired  of  the  wonderful  truth.  All 
had  been  wonderful  of  late,  but  the  rosy  little  Sigmund  was  the 
best  of  all  her  wonders.  She  had  grown  to  care  for  little  else. 
She  loved  them  all  with  a  great  love  passing  words,  but  she 
loved  them  best  for  what  they  had  given  her,  for  what  lay  in 
the  cradle  in  the  great  cool  nursery. 

The  tears  would  come,  and  she  let  them  flow  on  unheeded, 
day  by  day.  But  they  were  not  the  old  tears  of  long  ago,  that 
had  left  cruel  stains  upon  her  cheeks  and  aching  fires  in  her 
brain.  Their  soothing  streams  came  from  the  fountain  of  a 
new  life  and  washed  away  the  pain  of  the  grey  years  in  their 
healing  flood.  Instead  of  the  pale  dye  of  grief,  they  left  behind 
them  soft,  faint  hues  as  of  returning  day ;  instead  of  fierce, 
smarting  heat,  they  brought  the  clear  light  of  other  years  to  the 
eyes  that  had  seen  such  horror  of  death,  such  misery  of  want, 
and  that  now  gazed  tranquilly  on  such  sights  of  unspeakable 

joy- 
To-day,  she  spent  long  hours  alone  beside  what  she  loved  best 
in  the  world.  The  christening  had  given  a  new  impulse  to  all 
she  felt,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  child  was  more  her  own 
than  ever.  A  long  time  she  stood  with  folded  hands  before  the 
tiny  bed,  thinking,  thinking  always  of  the  great  deeds  that  little 
boy  should  one  day  dare  and  do,  for  God  and  king  and  country. 
Many  times  she  stooped  and  kissed  his  dazzling  face,  that 
seemed  to  glow  with  light  from  within,  and  each  time  her 
cheeks  were  wet,  as  the  sudden  and  almost  unbearable  thrill  of 
certain  happiness  leaped  through  her  heart.  Then  all  at  once 
she  smiled,  then  turned  and  went  out  softly  and*  entered  her 
own  room. 


GREIFENSTEIN.  385 

The  glory  of  the  summer's  day  streamed  in  through  the  lofty 
window,  shedding  a  blaze  of  light  upon  all  within,  upon  the 
smooth  matting  that  had  replaced  the  patched  old  carpet,  upon 
the  old  chest  that  held  so  many  of  her  dearest  treasures,  upon 
the  broad  expanse  of  black  velvet  whereon  were  hung  the  most 
precious  things  she  owned,  two  swords  in  their  scabbards  and 
a  leathern  helmet  with  a  gilded  spike. 

She  went  up  to  the  place  and  stood  a  moment,  looking  at  the 
three  objects.  Then  she  took  down  the  sabre  and  held  it  in  her 
two  hands,  lovingly,  as  she  would  have  held  the  child  she  adored. 
Her  white  hand  grasped  the  hilt,  and  the  burnished  blade  leaped 
from  its  sheath  like  a  meteor  into  the  blazing  sunshine. 

There  was  not  a  tarnished  spot  upon  the  good  steel,  not  a 
speck  of  dust  upon  its  gleaming  length,  not  a  shadow  along  the 
bright  bevel.  But  she  was  not  satisfied.  With  endless  care 
she  polished  the  shining  surface  again  and  again,  with  leather 
and  silk,  as  she  had  done  every  day  since  she  had  brought  it 
back  nearly  twenty  years  ago.  She  sheathed  it  then  in  its  scab 
bard,  and  rubbed  that,  and  last  of  all  the  hilt.  Then  she  was 
satisfied. 

Once  more  she  paused  and  gazed  at  the  spot  where  it  had 
hung  so  long,  as  though  asking  herself  whether  she  could  part 
with  it.  But  her  hesitation  was  short,  and  the  bright  smile 
came  again  to  her  face  as  she  went  back  to  her  grandson's  cradle. 
With  her  own  hands  she  drove  two  nails  into  the  tapestried  wall 
above  his  head.  As  the  clock  struck  twelve,  she  fastened  the 
burnished  weapon  securely  in  its  new  place. 

"  It  is  the  sword  of  his  fathers,"  she  said  softly.  "  God  give 
him  strength  and  grace  to  draw  it  in  good  cause  !  " 


THE   END. 


UNIFORM    EDITION    OF 

F.   MARION    CRAWFORD'S    NOVELS 

12mo,     Cloth.     Price,    ONE     DOLLAR    EACH. 


MARION    DARCHK. 

A  STORY  WITHOUT  COMMENT. 

AARION 
DARCHE 

PIETRO  GHISLERI,  1££          OUWFCRO 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  KING. 

DON  ORSINO.      A  Sequel  to  "  Saracinesca  "  and 
TUO   Tunco    CATCC.         ["  Sant' Ilario." 

THE  THREE  FATES. 

THE  WITCH  OF  PRAGUE. 
KHALED. 

A  CIGARETTE-MAKER'S  ROMANCE. 

SANT'   ILARIO.      A  Sequel  to  "  Saracinesca." 

GREIFENSTEIN. 

WITH  THE  IMMORTALS. 

TO   LEEWARD. 
A  ROMAN  SINGER. 

AN  AMERICAN  POLITICIAN. 
PAUL  PATOFF. 

MARZIO'S  CRUCIFIX. 
SARACINESCA. 

A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 
ZOROASTER. 

DR.  CLAUDIUS. 

MR.  ISAACS. 


MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


LIST  OF  WORKS 


BY 


MR.  F.  MARION    CRAWFORD. 


A    NEW     NOVEL,. 

PIETRO   GHISLERI. 

12mo,  cloth,  $1.00.     In  the  uniform  edition  of  Mr.  Crawford's 

Novels. 


THE   NOVEL.    WHAT   IT   IS. 

By  F.  MARION  CRAWFOIID,  author  of  "Children  of  the  King," 
"  Saracinesca,"  etc.,  etc.  Uniform  with  the  pocket  edition  of 
Willian  Winter's  Works.  With  photogravure  portrait.  18mo, 
cloth,  75  cents. 

***  Also  a  large-paper  limited  edition.     12mo,  $2.00. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  in  the  course  of  this  readable  little  essay  touches  upon  such 
topics  as  realism  and  romanticism,  the  use  of  dialect,  the  abuse  of  scientific 
information,  the  defects  of  historical  fiction.  Mr.  Crawford's  discussion  of 
what  does  and  what  does  not  constitute  the  novel  will  be  read  with  eager 
interest  by  the  large  company  of  his  sincere  admirers  in  this  country." — Beacon. 


CHILDREN    OF  THE   KING. 

A  Tale  of  Southern  Italy.     12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  sympathetic  reader  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  dramatic  power 
of  this  story.  The  simplicity  of  nature,  the  uncorrupted  truth  of  a  soul,  have 
been  portrayed  by  a  master-hand.  The  suddenness  of  the  unforeseen  tragedy 
at  the  last  renders  the  incident  of  the  story  powerful  beyond  description.  One 
can  only  feel  such  sensations  as  the  last  scene  of  the  story  incites.  It  may  be 
added  that  if  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  some  stories  unevenly,  he  has  made  no 
mistakes  in  the  stories  of  Italian  life.  A  reader  of  them  cannot  fail  to  gain  a 
clearer,  fuller  acquaintance  with  the  Italians  and  the  artistic  spirit  that  per 
vades  the  country."— M.  L.  B.  in  Syractise  Journal, 


MACMILLAN  &  Co.  take  pleasure  in  announcing  that  they  have 
added  the  following  volumes  (with  the  author's  latest  revisions)  to 
their  uniform  edition  of  the  Works  of  Mr.  F.  Marion  Crawford, 
thereby  enabling  them  to  issue  a  complete  edition  of  all  his  novels  : 

A  ROMAN  SINGER.    New  Edition,  revised  and  corrected. 

TO  LEEWARD.        PAUL  PATOFF. 

AN    AMERICAN    POLITICIAN.     New   Edition,  revised 

and  partly  rewritten. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO.,    Publishers, 

66    FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


THE  5ARACINE5CA  SERIES. 


DON    ORSINO. 

A  CONTINUATION  OF  "SARACINESCA"  AND  "SANT'  ILARIO." 

"The  third  in  a  rather  remarkable  series  of  novels  dealing  with 
three  generations  of  the  Saracinesca  family,  entitled  respectively 
'  Saracinesca,' '  Sant'  Ilario '  and  '  Don  Orsino,'  and  these  novels  present 
an  important  study  of  Italian  life,  customs,  and  conditions  during  the 
present  century.  Each  one  of  these  novels  is  worthy  of  very  careful 
reading  and  offers  exceptional  enjoyment  in  many  ways,  in  the 
fascinating  absorption  of  good  fiction,  in  interest  of  faithful  historic 
accuracy,  and  in  charm  of  style.  The  'new  Italy'  is  strikingly 
revealed  in  'Don  Orsino.'  "—Boston  Budget. 

"  We  are  inclined  to  regard  the  book  as  the  most  ingenious  of  all 
Mr.  Crawford's  fictions.  Certainly  it  is  the  best  novel  of  the  season." 
— Evening  Bulletin. 

SANT'  ILARIO.    A  Sequel  to  "Saracinesca." 

"  The  author  shows  steady  and  constant  improvement  in  his  art. 
'  Sant'  Ilario '  is  a  continuation  of  the  chronicles  of  the  Saracinesca 
family.  ...  A  singularly  powerful  and  beautiful  story.  .  .  .  Ad 
mirably  developed,  with  a  naturalness  beyond  praise.  ...  It  must 
rank  with  '  Greifenstein  '  as  the  best  work  the  author  has  produced. 
It  fulfils  every  requirement  of  artistic  ffction.  It  brings  out  what  is 
most  impressive  in  human  action,  without  owing  any  of  its  effective 
ness  to  sensationalism  or  artifice.  It  is  natural,  fluent  in  evolution, 
accordant  with  experience,  graphic  in  description,  penetrating  in 
analysis,  and  absorbing  in  interest." — New  York  Tribune. 

SARACINESCA. 

"His  highest  achievement,  as  yet,  in  the  realms  of  fiction.  The 
work  has  two  distinct  merits,  either  of  which  would  serve  to  make 
it  great, — that  of  telling  a  perfect  story  in  a  perfect  way,  and  of  giv 
ing  a  graphic  picture  of  Roman  society  in  the  last  days  of  the  Pope's 
temporal  power.  .  .  .  The  story  is  exquisitely  told." — Boston 
Traveller. 

"One  of  the  most  engrossing  novels  we  have  ever  read." — Boston 
Times. 

The  three  volumes  in  a  box,  $3.00. 
Half  morocco,  $8.00.     Half  calf,  $7.50. 
2 


THE  THREE    FATES. 

"  The  strength  of  the  story  lies  in  its  portrayal  of  the  aspirations, 
disciplinary  efforts,  trials  and  triumphs  of  the  man  who  is  a  born 
writer,  and  who,  by  long  and  painful  experiences,  learns  the  good 
that  is  in  him  and  the  way  in  which  to  give  it  effectual  expression. 
The  analytical  quality  of  the  book  is  excellent,  and  the  individuality 
of  each  one  of  the  very  dissimilar  three  fates  is  set  forth  in  an  entirely 
satisfactory  manner.  .  .  .  Mr.  Crawford  has  manifestly  brought  his 
best  qualities  as  a  student  of  human  nature  and  his  finest  resources 
as  a  master  of  an  original  and  picturesque  style  to  bear  upon  this 
story.  Taken  for  all  in  all  it  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  of  all  his 
productions  in  fiction,  and  it  affords  a  view  of  certain  phases  of  Amer 
ican,  or  perhaps  we  should  say  of  New  York,  life  that  have  not 
hitherto  been  treated  with  anything  like  the  same  adequacy  and 
felicity." — Boston  Beacon. 


THE  WITCH   OF   PRAGUE. 

A  FANTASTIC  TALE. 
ILLUSTRATED  BY  W.  J.  HENNESSY. 

"  '  The  Witch  of  Prague '  is  so  remarkable  a  book  as  to  be  certain 
of  as  wide  a  popularity  as  any  of  its  predecessors.  The  keenest  inter 
est  for  most  readers  will  lie  in  its  demonstration  of  the  latest  revela 
tions  of  hypnotic  science.  .  .  .  But  '  The  Witch  of  Prague '  is  not 
merely  a  striking  exposition  of  the  far-reaching  possibilities  of  a  new 
science  ;  it  is  a  romance  of  singular  daring  and  power." — London 
Academy.  • 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  in  many  keys,  but  never  in  so  strange 
a  one  as  that  which  dominates  'The  Witch  of  Prague.'  .  .  .  The 
artistic  skill  with  which  this  extraordinary  story  is  constructed  and 
carried  out  is  admirable  and  delightful.  .  .  .  Mr.  Crawford  has 
scored  a  decided  triumph,  for  the  interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained 
throughout.  ...  A  very  remarkable,  powerful,  and  interesting 
story." — New  York  Tribune. 

"But  Mr.  Crawford  has  not  lost  his  oft-proved  skill  in  holding 
his  readers'  attention,  and  there  are  single  scenes  and  passages  in  this 
book  that  rival  in  intensity  anything  he  has  ever  written." — Christian 
Union. 


A   CIGARETTE-MAKER'S    ROMANCE. 

"  Tt  is  a  touching  romance,  filled  with  scenes  of  great  dramatic 
power. " — Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

"  It  is  full  of  life  and  movement,  and  is  one  of  the  best  of  Mr. 
Crawford's  books." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"The  interest  is  unflagging  throughout.  Never  has  Mr.  Craw 
ford  done  more  brilliant  realistic  work  than  here.  But  his  realism 
is  only  the  case  and  cover  for  those  intense  feelings  which,  placed 
under  no  matter  what  humble  conditions,  produce  the  most  dramatic 
and  the  most  tragic  situations.  .  .  .  This  is  a  secret  of  genius,  to 
take  the  most  coarse  and  common  material,  the  meanest  surround 
ings,  the  most  sordid  material  prospects,  and  out  of  the  vehement 
passions  which  sometimes  dominate  all  human  beings  to  build  up 
with  these  poor  elements  scenes  and  passages,  the  dramatic  and  emo 
tional  power  of  which  at  once  enforce  attention  and  awaken  the  pro- 
foundest  interest." — New  York  Tribune. 

' '  In  the  '  Cigarette-maker's  Romance  '  Mr.  Crawford  may  be  said 
to  have  given  new  evidence  of  the  novel-maker's  art.  ...  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  every  one  who  reads  Mr.  Crawford's  tale  will  heed  of  the 
rare  finish  of  his  literary  work,  a  model  in  its  kind," — The  Critic. 


GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  '  Greifenstein  '  is  a  remarkable  novel,  and  while  it  illustrates 
once  more  the  author's  unusual  versatility,  it  also  shows  that  he  has 
not  been  tempted  into  careless  writing  by  the  vogue  of  his  earlier 
books.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  weak  or  small  or  frivolous  in  the  story. 
The  author  deals  with  tremendous  passions  working  at  the  height  of 
their  energy.  His  characters  are  stern,  rugged,  determined  men  and 
women,  governed  by  powerful  prejudices  and  iron  conventions,  types 
of  a  military  people,  in  whom  the  sense  of  duty  has  been  cultivated 
until  it  dominates  all  other  motives,  and  in  whom  the  principle  of 
'  noblesse  oblige  '  is,  so  far  as  the  aristocratic  class  is  concerned,  the 
fundamental  rule  of  conduct.  What  such  people  may  be  capable  ot 
is  startlingly  shown." — New  York  Tribune. 

"...  Another  notable  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  day.  It 
possesses  originality  in  its  conception  and  is  a  work  of  unusual  abil 
ity.  Its  interest  is  sustained  to  the  close,  and  it  is  an  advance  even 
on  the  previous  work  of  this  talented  author.  Like  all  Mr.  Craw 
ford's  work  this  novel  is  crisp,  clear,  and  vigorous,  and  will  be  read 
with  a  great  deal  of  interest."— New  York  Evening  Telegram. 


MR.     ISAACS. 

A  TALE  OF   MODERN   INDIA. 

"  The  writer  first  shows  the  hero  in  relation  with  the  people  of 
the  East  and  then  skilfully  brings  into  connection  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race.  It  is  in  this  showing  of  the  different  effects  which  the  two 
classes  of  minds  have  upon  the  central  figure  of  the  story  that  one  of 
its  chief  merits  lies.  The  characters  are  original  and  one  does  not 
recognize  any  of  the  hackneyed  personages  who  are  so  apt  to  be  con 
sidered  indispensable  to  novelists,  and  which,  dressed  in  one  guise  or 
another,  are  but  the  marionettes,  which  are  all  dominated  by  the 
same  inind,  moved  by  the  same  motive  force.  The  men  are  all 
endowed  with  individualism  and  independent  life  and  thought.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  strong  tinge  of  mysticism  about  the  book  which  is  one  of 
its  greatest  charms." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  No  story  of  human  experience  that  we  have  met  with  since 
'  John  Inglesant '  has  such  an  effect  of  transporting  the  reader  into 
regions  differing  from  his  own.  '  Mr.  Isaacs '  is  the  best  novel  that 
has  ever  laid  its  scenes  in  our  Indian  dominions." — The  Daily  News, 
London. 

"  This  is  a  fine  and  noble  story.  It  has  freshness  like  a  new  and 
striking  scene  on  which  one  has  never  looked  before.  It  has  character 
and  individuality.  It  has  meaning.  It  is  lofty  and  uplifting,  It  is 
strongly,  sweetly,  tenderly  written.  It  is  in  all  respects  an  uncommon 
novel.  ...  In  fine,  '  Mr.  Isaacs  '  is  an  acquaintance  to  be  made. " 

— The  Literary  World. 

DR.    CLAUDIUS. 

A  TRUE  STORY. 

"There  is  a  suggestion  of  strength,  of  a  mastery  of  facts,  of  a 
fund  of  knowledge,  that  speaks  well  for  future  production.  ...  To 
be  thoroughly  enjoyed,  however,  this  book  must  be  read,  as  no'  mere 
cursory  notice  can  give  an  adequate  idea  of  its  many  interesting 
points  and  excellences,  for  without  a  doubt  '  Dr.  Claudius  '  is  the 
most  interesting  book  that  has  been  published  for  many  months,  and 
richly  deserves  a  high  place  in  the  public  favor. " — tit.  Louis  Spectator. 

"  '  Dr.  Claudius'  is  surprisingly  good,  coming  after  a  story  of  so 
much  merit  as  'Mr.  Isaacs.'  The  hero  is  a  magnificent  specimen  of 
humanity,  and  sympathetic  readers  will  be  fascinated  by  his  chival 
rous  wooing  of  the  beautiful  American  countess." — Boston  Traveller. 

' '  To  our  mind  it  by  no  means  belies  the  promises  of  its  predecessor. 
The  storv,  an  exceedingly  improbable  and  romantic  one,  is  told  with 
much  skill ;  the  characters  are  strongly  marked  without  any  suspi 
cion  of  caricature,  and  the  author's  ideas  on  social  and  political  sub 
jects  are  often  brilliant  and  always  striking.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to 
sav  that  there  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  book,  which  is  peculiarly  adapted 
for  the  recreation  of  student  or  thinker." — Living  Church. 

5 


WITH    THE     IMMORTALS. 

"Altogether  an  admirable  piece  of  art  worked  in  the  spirit  of  » 
thorough  artist.  Every  reader  of  cultivated  tastes  will  find  it  a  book 
prolific  in  entertainment  of  the  most  refined  description,  and  to  all 
such  we  commend  it  heartily.  "—Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"The  strange  central  idea  of  the  story  could  have  occurred  only 
to  a  writer  whose  mind  was  very  sensitive  to  the  current  of  modern 
thought  and  progress,  while  its  execution,  the  setting  it  forth  in 
proper  literary  clothing,  could  be  successfully  attempted  only  by  one 
whose  active  literary  ability  should  be  fully  equalled  by  his  power  of 
assimilative  knowledge  both  literary  and  scientific,  and  no  less  by 
his  courage  and  capacity  for  hard  work.  The  book  will  be  found  to 
have  a  fascination  entirely  new  for  the  habitual  reader  of  novels. 
Indeed  Mr.  Crawford  has  succeeded  in  taking  his  readers  quite  above 
the  ordinary  plane  of  novel  interest." — Boston  Advertiser. 

MARZIO'S    CRUCIFIX. 

"We  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  this  work  belongs  to  the 
highest  department  of  character-painting  in  words." — Churchman. 

"  'Marzio's  Crucifix'  is  another  of  those  tales  of  modern  Rome 
which  show  the  author  so  much  at  his  ease.  A  subtle  compound  of 
artistic  feeling,  avarice,  malice,  and  criminal  frenzy  is  this  carver  of 
silver  chalices  and  crucifixes." — The  Times. 

' '  We  have  repeatedly  had  occasion  to  say  that  Mr.  Crawford  pos 
sesses  in  an  extraordinary  degree  the  art  of  constructing  a  story.  His 
sense  of  proportion  is  just,  and  his  narrative  flows  along  with  ease 
and  perspicuity.  It  is  as  if  it  could  not  have  been  written  otherwise, 
so  naturally  does  the  story  unfold  itself,  and  so  logical  and  consistent 
is  the  sequence  of  incident  after  incident.  As  a  story  '  Marzio's  Cru 
cifix  '  is  perfectly  constructed." — New  York  Commercial  Advertiser- 

KHALED. 

A  STORY  OF  ARABIA. 

"Throughout  the  fascinating  story  runs  the  subtlest  analysis, 
suggested  rather  than  elaborately  worked  out,  of  human  passion  and 
motive,  the  building  out  and  development  of  the  character  of  the 
woman  who  becomes  the  hero's  wife  and  whose  love  he  finally  wins 
being  an  especially  acute  and  highly- finished  example  of  the  story 
teller's  art.  .  .  .  That  it  is  beautifully  written  and  holds  the  interest 
of  the  reader,  fanciful  as  it  all  is,  to  the  very  end,  none  who  know 
the  depth  and  artistic  finish  of  Mr.  Crawford's  work  need  be  told. 

— The  Chicago  Times. 

"It  abounds  in  stirring  incidents  and  barbaric  picturesqueness  ; 
and  the  love  struggle  of  the  unloved  Khaled  is  manly  in  its  simplicity 
and  noble  in  its  ending.  Mr.  Crawford  has  done  nothing  better  than, 
if  he  has  done  anything  as  good  as,  '  Khaled.'  " — The  Mail  and  Ex 
press. 

6 


ZOROASTER. 

"  The  novel  opens  with  a  magnificent  description  of  the  march  of 
the  Babylonian  court  to  Belshazzar's  feast,  with  the  sudden  and  awful 
ending  of  the  latter  by  the  marvellous  writing  on  the  wall  which 
Daniel  is  called  to  interpret.  From  that  point  the  story  moves  on  in  a 
series  of  grand  and  dramatic  scenes  and  incidents  which  will  not  fail 
to  hold  the  reader  fascinated  and  spell-bound  to  the  end." — Christian 
at  Work. 

' '  The  field  of  Mr.  Crawford's  imagination  appears  to  be  un 
bounded.  ...  In  'Zoroaster'  Mr.  Crawford's  winged  fancy  ventures 
a  daring  flight.  .  .  .  Yet  '  Zoroaster  '  is  a  novel  rather  than  a  drama. 
It  is  a  drama  in  the  force  of  its  situations  and  in  the  poetry  and 
dignity  of  its  language ;  but  its  men  and  women  are  not  men  and 
women  of  a  play.  By  the  naturalness  of  their  conversation  and  be 
havior  they  seem  to  live  and  lay  hold  of  our  human  sympathy  more 
than  the  same  characters  on  a  stage  could  possibly  do." — The 
Times. 

"As  a  matter  of  literary  art  solely,  we  doubt  if  Mr.  Crawford  has 
ever  before  given  us  better  work  than  the  description  of  Belshazzar's 
feast  with  which  the  story  begins,  or  the  death-scene  with  which  it 
closes." — The  Christian  Union. 


A    TALE    OF    A     LONELY     PARISH. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind  as  this 
brief  and  vivid  story.  ...  It  is  doubly  a  success,  being  full  of  human 
sympathy,  as  well  as  thoroughly  artistic  in  its  nice  balancing  of  the 
unusual  with  the  commonplace,  the  clever  juxtaposition  of  innocence 
and  guilt,  comedy  and  tragedy,  simplicity  and  intrigue." — Critic. 

' '  Of  all  the  stories  Mr.  Crawford  has  written,  it  is  the  most  dra 
matic,  the  most  finished,  the  most  compact.  .  .  .  The  taste  which  is 
left  in  one's  mind  after  the  story  is  finished  is  exactly  what  the  fine 
reader  desires  and  the  novelist  intends.  ...  It  has  no  defects.  It  is 
neither  trifling  nor  trivial.  It  is  a  work  of  art.  It  is  perfect." 

—Boston  Beacon. 

' '  The  plot  is  unfolded  and  the  character-drawing  given  with  the 
well-known  artistic  skill  of  Mr.  Crawford,  and  to  those  who  have  not 
before  read  it  this  story  will  furnish  a  rare  literary  treat. " 

— Home  J 
7 


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